


Migratory Patterns

by stardropdream



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, Birds, Childhood Friends, Falling In Love, Farmer Shiro (Voltron), First Kiss, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Love Letters, M/M, Meet-Cute, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Ornithologist Keith (Voltron), Reunions, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 29,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28918698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: It's been years since Keith moved away from his hometown. Now his job studying a rare pair of swans has brought him back to Altea Springs... and to unexpectedly reunite with his childhood best friend, Shiro.But ten years is a long time, so certainly Shiro won't remember their last night together, no matter how much Keith finds himself still lingering on what could have been.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 106
Kudos: 275
Collections: Sheithmark 2021





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my fic for the [sheithmark event](https://twitter.com/sheithmark)! I had such a blast working on this with my artist, [Ani](https://twitter.com/ani_mani95)! We worked with the Hallmark movie _Away & Back_, featuring a stubborn ornithologist, a misunderstood farmer, and a family of swans that brings them together. 
> 
> Thank you again to Ani for the beautiful art featured in this fic! You can find those pieces [here](https://twitter.com/ani_mani95/status/1358858657765720071) and [here](https://twitter.com/ani_mani95/status/1358858665348972545). You can also check out her other art on her Twitter, so be sure to send her those comments, likes, and rt's! 
> 
> And thank you to my beta, [Meg](https://twitter.com/kedawen), for reading this over for me! 
> 
> (Finally, thank you to all ornithologists out there who so passionately recorded your cool bird facts, job descriptions, and research in a way that makes a layperson like me understand and integrate into a fic lol.)

Keith stands at the edge of the shore, as he so often does during these chilly mornings, and peers through his binoculars at the two swans across the lake. They swim together, disturbing the glassy-smooth surface as they weave between the reeds and lily-pads, unconcerned with the human standing at the opposite side.

This has been Keith’s routine for the past few weeks now: he starts each cold morning driving out to the lake in the nature reserve and observes his two charges for hours, taking careful notes of their behaviors and habits. 

It’s not his main job, but it’s what he’ll be doing for the winter. Once the spring comes around, the nature reserve will start ramping up its range of events and activities. Keith is very much not looking forward to the forced-peopleing in the coming months, although there’s no guarantee he’ll stick around here. Depending on need, he might get reassigned. 

He thinks of the report he sent off just this morning— with the same findings from last week and the week before. No new changes in swan behavior, but it’s better than bad news, Keith supposes. He lowers his binoculars, letting them swing against his chest before settling. They’re old, well-loved, and well-worn, his mother’s initials etched into the leather strap at the clasp. It was her gift to him after he started his fieldwork during grad school. 

It’s strange, really. He hasn’t been back to his hometown of Altea Springs since he and his parents moved away; he hardly feels settled. Since coming back, he’s mostly kept to himself on the outskirts, only coming into town when he needs supplies or to fax off his field report to the main office. 

Keith was never one for nostalgia. He’s here for his job and even if it’s a strange coincidence that brings him back to Altea Springs, there’s nothing about it that spells out destiny. Keith puts no stock in fate or karma or serendipity as a general rule. 

There’s one person in town he might want to look up but— well. 

He hasn’t quite summoned up the strength to do that, yet, even if the larger part of his heart _wants_ to see him. 

Keith isn’t sure if it’s a matter of pride or a matter of fear— whether his childhood best friend will even remember him, after all, is a question Keith doesn’t have time to linger on. And if the answer is no, he certainly doesn’t need that confirmation. 

He has swans to study, document, and survey, and that’s what he’s here for through these winter months, in addition to wildlife and wetland conservation plans to draft up, and the grant proposals deadlines that never cease. 

He can focus on that rather than the sparks of memory that flicker to life whenever he passes by a familiar haunt in town. The old playground they used to play at, the swings rickety and well-loved. The old drive-in movie theater they’d beg their parents to bring them to. The community center where they took art classes together. 

The bitter winter wind whips against Keith’s thin winter coat and he grumbles to himself, rubbing his hands against his legs to warm them up through friction. Fingerless gloves might be helpful for dexterity and minute tasks, but they do little to actually keep him warm. Altea Springs was usually home to relatively mild winters— stuck in a rain shadow from the mountains to the west— but it’s been a bit of a cold snap this month, as far as he can tell from the chittering small talk from locals whenever he pops into the general store. 

Keith squats down to record his notes from the morning observations, scribbling away in barely legible shorthand he’ll type up later for a proper report. He rocks on his heels absently, chewing on his bottom lip before lifting the binoculars again to get a new visual on the swans. 

They’ve finished swimming through the water, climbing up onto the nest they’ve built a few yards into the lake itself. The black swan flutters her wings before tucking up into herself, feathers ruffled. The white swan, significantly smaller than her companion, walks around the circumference of the nest before settling in next to the black one, her wings lifted briefly to shake loose before settling in beside her, the otherwise pristinely white feathers tacky with old blood— something he’s seen enough to no longer be alarmed by— almost as vivid as the red band on her leg with the NW Wildlife Trust serial number. 

Keith frowns, watching them for a moment longer. When they don’t make any more movement, seemingly content to roost, Keith lowers the binoculars again with a sigh, finishing up his notes before kicking his legs out from beneath him to sit down rather than squat. He lands heavily, uncaring about the chill of the cold dirt against his ass. 

He’ll need to buy a new coat, probably. He’s not looking forward to it, since all the stores in Altea Springs are too pricey for his tastes, and he doesn’t have enough gas in his truck to justify a trip to the nearest city— Phlat City will have better prices, but it hardly feels worth it considering the price of gas. Maybe he’ll go into town and buy an extra thermal layer or a sweater. 

It’s after the holidays. Maybe the purposefully badly-designed gimmick ugly sweaters will be on sale at the thrift store. Maybe they won’t be shitty polyester and actually keep him warm. 

Maybe once he’s in town, he can finally look up Shiro like he knows he wants to.

Keith presses his lips together in a small grunt of frustration, an involuntary blush rising to his cheeks. It’s been close to ten years since he moved away from Altea Springs, and, coincidentally, fell out of touch with his childhood best friend. The internet is a thing, but Keith’s never been great with social media. Shiro’s been on his mind ever since he came back here— since before then, if he’s honest. Keith hasn’t seen him yet, but it’s not like it’s such a small town that he knows everybody; as far as he can tell, nobody even recognizes him as the gangly fourteen-year-old he’d once been. There’s no guarantee that Shiro even still lives here— or that he’d even recognize or remember Keith, should they run into each other. 

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters to himself, embarrassed by his own circular thinking. He was hung up on Shiro when he was fourteen and it seems twenty-four-year-old Keith feels the aftershocks of those teenaged feelings still. Embarrassing. 

He’s interrupted from his thoughts as he hears the swans taking flight, the flurry of the wingbeats drawing Keith’s attention as they head south towards town. This is typical of their flight patterns, as far as Keith can tell, although a few weeks of case-study data isn’t enough to draw a conclusion. Keith sighs, watching them lift above the trees and disappear, their calls echoing through the air. 

He slams his field notebook shut and shoves it into his pocket before standing up again, hands on his hips. He tips his head back to stare at the sky. A few finches dart overhead, chirping happily into the trees. A lesser goldfinch, pine siskin, and red crossbill by the looks of it, although Keith only saw them at a glance. 

“Swans first,” he decides to himself. “Then maybe a coat.” He keeps getting cold, so he might as well make the investment now since his paycheck came through direct deposit earlier this week. He’ll put up with the priciness if he can stop shivering. 

He listens to the birdsongs as he tromps his way through the mud towards his old truck. He kicks the tires to clear away some of the mud caking the bottom of his boots before he hops in, eager to kickstart the engine and get the heat going. Though it blows cold on him to start, it eventually warms up as he makes his way into town. 

He knows the journey well, often spending his afternoons here tracking the swans. It’s easily the most stressful part of his day, having to interact with people and get them to back off from the birds. He doesn’t know what it is about Altea Springs residents and their inability to just leave the swans alone, but it’s been something of a headache over the past three weeks. 

Keith’s been thinking of petitioning parks and rec to put up signs, but government moves slowly and it requires more people-ing. It’s hardly an inviting route. 

He arrives to his usual parking spot— on the north end of the main park, tucked into a side-street with plenty of parallel parking spots. Keith throws his truck into reverse and tucks into a section nearest the entrance before grabbing his supplies. He pops out of his truck and makes his way towards the grassy knoll the swans like to lounge in, lumbering around the park with all the entitlement and aggressiveness of Canada Geese. 

Keith zips up his coat all the way to this throat, wishing he had a hat to ward off the wind on his ears, biting them red. He hunches in on himself, following the swans at a safe distance as they parade through the grass. The black swan follows the white swan, who tends to be far more aggressive— not that Keith lets himself personify them. The white swan with her red band— number 605— tends to trumpet at passersby but that doesn’t mean Keith would ever call her _talkative_. They’re swans. 

Sure enough, a woman walking her dog is the prime target for the white swan who comes waddling towards her, wings held aloft as she starts honking ferociously. She looks quite the sight with all the dried blood on her— the outcome of several such encounters. 

Keith sighs, already preparing to step in, his eyes caught on the woman like a hawk. She squawks back at the swan, taken aback by her sudden presence. As the white swan looms ever closer, the woman kicks her foot out— the telltale _shoo!_ gesture without any real intent behind it. It only makes the white swan honk louder, flapping her wings. 

Rarely do the townspeople actually try to attack the swans— all the better, since Altea Springs residents are required to stay at least forty yards away from the birds, as mandated by their protected species status— but Keith knows the town’s resentment towards the swans invading the park like this. He’s heard plenty of talk about shooting or throwing rocks at them to get them to leave the town in peace. 

Keith’s here to study the birds, not to act as their protector. But on the days when the swans fly into town, that’s all Keith is: Swan Bodyguard. 

“Hey!” he yells when the lady picks up a discarded stick, looking intent on swinging it at the white swan. “Forty yards!” 

This isn’t the first time they’ve had this exchange with this woman; he sees the woman’s spark of recognition when she hears Keith and her displeasure towards him is nearly as intense as her distaste for the swan. The dog on its leash yaps at the bird, but 605 is easily twice its size, especially with her wings held up. 

“That stick better be for your dog,” Keith adds, taking a step towards the whole scene. 

Just as usual, the woman scoffs at him. Despite Keith’s relative lankiness, he knows his face is intimidating and unpleasant enough, and so when he gets into confrontations like this, they rarely escalate. The fact that Keith is technically a government official probably helps, too. 

It ends as it always does: the townsperson stomps away muttering about nuisances and wild animals. _Someone should shoot Red and be done with it._ Keith knows what they tend to call the swans— Red and Black, although Keith thinks it’s stupid to name wild animals, especially those you’re determined to hate. And such unoriginal names, too. 

Keith feels an encroaching headache. He drops down onto his usual bench to watch the swans waddle along together. Keith isn’t required to tail them twenty-four seven, just do periodic check-ins to monitor their behavior, habitat, and general health from an observational standpoint, but his day-to-day tends to be this. 

Last summer, after the white swan got injured by a stray gunshot from a hunter, Keith had helped rehabilitate her. He doesn’t let himself get attached to the birds he studies, although deep down he knows he has a soft spot for these two birds. The whole time the white swan had rehabilitated inside the facility over at the Wildlife Trust, the black swan had lingered outside. 

Keith doesn’t look for metaphors or allegories in the animals he studies, although the other ornithologists he worked with at the time thought it was sweet. _They’re in love,_ they’d said, cooing at Black through the window. _She’s just looking out for her soulmate._

Nobody ever really asked Keith if he believed in soulmates. They’d assumed his thoughts on the matter and it isn’t as if Keith was offering his opinion, either. 

Keith stares down at his notes and decidedly does not think of Shiro. 

Keith focuses on his job. He documents his observations in his shorthand, watching the swans for a time before he tugs out his cellphone, using some of his limited data to access his email. There’s nothing new, aside from a quick check-in from his parents— who still send him things to his work email because he’s better about answering that then he is text messages or videocalls. He scrolls through old messages he’s had since a few days ago, shooting off a response to his parents to promise he’ll call this weekend, and then answers a work email about recent grant proposals, the utter bane of his existence. 

He pauses when he hears the black swan honk, which just sends the white swan into action, honking far louder and more aggressively— it’s how Keith can tell their calls apart just by listening. Keith looks up, expecting to see some dogwalker having a run-in with the white swan, as per usual. 

It’s a familiar scene: a guy walking through the park, holding a bag of groceries, and two swans waddling across his path. Unlike other park-goers, this guy’s trying to step around the swans without disturbing them rather than immediately defaulting to anger and disgust. 

“Hey, come on, buddies,” the guy says, voice carrying helplessly through the empty park.

Keith notices a few things in quick succession— one, the white swan isn’t actually attacking him, as he’s seen so many times; two, the guy isn’t being overly aggressive back, but seems determined to get out of their way as quickly as possible; three, the swans seem very much uninterested in getting out of his way, waddling along the path with profound contentment; and four, the guy sounds and looks unbearably familiar. 

It feels like a lightning bolt straight into his chest. Keith stands up from the park bench. “Shiro?” 

And Shiro— because it _is_ Shiro, taller, older, broader than how Keith still pictures him, but undoubtedly Shiro— jerks his eyes away from his feet where he’s still wobbling to avoid the swans.

Keith watches Shiro recognize him. “Keith?” 

His voice is far prettier than Keith remembers— deep, husky, and sending a shot of warmth straight into Keith’s gut. Hearing Shiro say his name always felt like too much, and that hasn’t changed, it seems. Keith is vividly aware now of just how the syllables of his name sound on Shiro’s lips. 

But before Keith can say anything more, the black swan squawks just as Shiro’s boot comes dangerously close to stomping her. Her wings flutter out, all ruffled feathers and protesting honk, and Shiro huffs a shocked breath and skitters backward. 

The path is too icy, though— Keith’s seen so many people slip today alone— and there’s no stopping Shiro as he loses his footing and goes down hard, boots slipping out from under him and his bag of groceries going flying. 

Keith reaches out instinctively to right him, but it’s too late. The swans flap their wings and fly away quickly just as Shiro lands hard on his back with a muffled curse of pain, and the thud is hard and resounding. 

Keith doesn’t know what to do, alarmed by the sudden turn of events— of his childhood best friend being here, again, right in front of him. And also flat on his back on the icy ground. Shiro groans, hand lifting to touch the back of his head where he conked it hard on the pavement. 

“Fuck,” Keith says, hurrying to him. “Are you okay?” 

“Oof,” Shiro says in response, looking a little dazed as he blinks up at Keith. “Yeah— I have plenty of padding.”

He pats his hand against his chest, the puffiness of his winter coat suggesting plenty of layers beneath. It just means Keith’s staring at Shiro’s chest, broad in a way that suggests more than just a winter coat. 

“I—” Keith fumbles, unsure what to say, unsure if he should be more alarmed or concerned or relieved or _anything_ , but everything’s happened far too quickly and he has no idea how to process the fact that Shiro is _here_ , right in front of him.

Shiro starts laughing, that same lilting, self-deprecating laugh that Keith knows so well from their childhood. It’s shocking to hear it again in its familiarity but deepened with age. Keith feels the cold winter’s air against his cheeks, turning his face rosy. 

“I— I can’t believe you just tripped because of a swan,” Keith says and whips his hand out, offering it to Shiro. It’s an instinctive action, both reaching for his childhood best friend and teasing him. He falls into it as easily as a shadow skirts the ground on a summer day and Keith isn’t sure what to make of it.

He remembers so many moments like this with Shiro— rolling down grassy hills together, hoisting the other out of a kiddy pool, laughing and happy. He can’t count how many times Shiro has reached for him and helped bring him back onto his feet after a nasty tumble off a skateboard.

Shiro doesn’t even hesitate to reach up and grab Keith’s hand, letting Keith haul him to his feet— and, holy shit, Shiro’s gotten _tall_ since the last time they saw each other. And wide, Keith thinks as Shiro rights himself on his feet, still a little wobbly, his hat knocked askew to expose one wind-kissed pink ear and the snowy white locks of his hair. 

Keith itches to reach out and adjust his hat for him. He’d have done it if they were still teenagers, but now Keith isn’t sure if he’s allowed that level of intimacy. He’s never encountered such a situation before, really, running into someone he used to know better than his own self. 

He’s spared the awkward moment of lingering when Shiro steps forward and scoops Keith into his arms, hugging him so tight that it steals the breath from Keith’s lungs.

“It’s so good to see you,” Shiro breathes in Keith’s ear, his big hands flat on Keith’s back, and the winter coat does little to stave off the shivers that ripple through Keith. He’s encased by Shiro entirely. 

Keith’s hands fling up to hug Shiro back, only a little awkward and uncertain before he melts into the embrace. His fingers curl into the fabric of Shiro’s coat. “I— yeah. I wasn’t sure if you’d still live around here.” 

“Yeah,” Shiro says. The hug lingers for a moment too long, but Keith can’t question it, not when it feels so easy to be in Shiro’s embrace again. 

Maybe it’s pathetic, to feel so thrown off by running into him like this. Maybe it’s pathetic just how many times he’s thought of Shiro in the past years. 

Keith’s cheeks burn to think of the last time they ever saw each other— the promises that passed between them, the _almost_ ’s and the what-if chances. He gulps as Shiro pulls back from the hug, his hands planting on Keith’s shoulders and stretching him back so he can really look at him. Shiro’s eyes sweep over him, like he’s drinking him in. 

“Wow,” Shiro says and he sounds breathless. He grins. “You look so good!” 

Keith blushes further, unsure just what Shiro could see when he looks at Keith like this— overly cold, maybe, with his lack of hat and proper gloves and too-thin coat over a sweatshirt. Lanky, maybe, or too thin. His hair needs to be washed after a few too many days spent at the lake. The old, faded scar from childhood mishaps he got alongside Shiro’s when they were up to whatever nonsense, scrappy idiots looking for adventure, still slices across his cheek. He must look a mess. 

Keith’s throat closes up. He knew he missed Shiro. Impossible not to. But he didn’t realize just how badly, how deeply he missed him until just now, seeing him here before him. It’s like an old wound shredding open. 

“Wow,” Shiro says again, his cheeks a perfect rosy pink as he studies Keith with the same intensity he used to study Keith. 

Shiro smells like lavender, Keith thinks stupidly the longer he stands so close to Shiro, his big hands heavy on his shoulders. He kind of wants Shiro to hug him again. 

“You look good,” Shiro says.

Keith’s mouth flickers with a smile, helpless and involuntary. “You already said that.” 

Shiro fumbles, laughing a little as he slides his eyes away from Keith finally. Keith misses the weight of Shiro’s gaze immediately. 

Shiro clears his throat, then jerks his head up as he spies all his groceries scattered across the path and into the grass. “Oh no!” 

He nearly slips again in his haste to kneel, grabbing for the strewn groceries. Keith squats to help him, picking up cans of coconut milk and kidney beans, watching Shiro shove a bag of flour and a package of tofu back into his canvas bag. 

“No produce?” Keith asks, already slipping so easily back into teasing, so natural it’s shocking to Keith. “What will your mother say, Shiro?” 

Shiro barks a laugh, blushing. “I have plenty of vegetables! I just don’t buy them from the store. I wait for the farmers market.” 

His hand bumps Keith’s and it makes Keith startle. Before he can even recover, Shiro grabs his hand properly, turning Keith’s hand palm-up to examine the curl of his fingers. “Fingerless gloves, huh? You must be cold!”

Keith doesn’t make any move to snatch his hand back, as he would with literally anybody else. He flashes Shiro a wobbly smile. “It’s good for work.” 

“But not for staying warm,” Shiro says, frowning as he considers him. “Hey… Are you busy right now?”

The sudden question throws Keith entirely, just as this entire encounter has. “Huh?” 

“Are you free?” Shiro asks. “I’d love to get a coffee— or tea, whatever. We can catch up. You can warm up.” 

Keith looks around the park. The swans have returned to their usual spot, lurking beneath the trees and honking at the bicyclists cycling down the bike path. Keith blinks, uncertain, and looks back at Shiro— and he remembers those puppy eyes well. He’s always been weak to them. 

“I, uh,” Keith says. He licks his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I’ve got some time.” 

Shiro perks up, brightening. “Great! Come on.” 

“Wait,” Keith says, laughing as he picks up the last of Shiro’s groceries, tucking them back into his bag. “There.” 

“Ha, oh! Thanks,” Shiro says. He jerks his head towards Park Street, a familiar route to many coffee shops. 

Keith is helpless to follow, finding his spot beside Shiro as they walk, keeping an eye out for any stray patches of ice.

-

The entire afternoon feels so surreal as they make it to the Human Bean— their favorite coffee shop as kids not for any sort of caffeine (Shiro’s parents forbade him from drinking coffee before he was eighteen and Keith didn’t like the taste), but because the café had chalkboard tables to draw on. It’s much the same as Keith remembers it, the ambiance and tinny jazz music coming in through the speakers filling the entire building with the café mood. 

Shiro orders a tea for himself and then, after turning to look at Keith expectantly, a tea for him, too. It feels so much like days after school with Shiro, wandering from the high school down to the Human Bean to do homework together and drink endless cups of tea, saving the tealeaves to steep up to four times, even once it was more water than flavor. 

It’s instinctive to find the corner booth they used to favor and scoot down the familiar wooden bench against the wall, waiting for their order to be called. Shiro grins at him from across the table, slipping off his gloves now that he’s settled. He drums his prosthetic fingertips against the chalkboard, the same way he did as a kid, and the sound is such a nostalgic reminder of time long gone. 

Keith doesn’t even realize he’s smiling fondly until Shiro’s smiling back, his eyes unbearably kind. 

“It’s so good to see you,” he says again. Keith blushes again, too, overwhelmed to hear as much multiple times in so many minutes. 

“Yeah— yeah. You too, Shiro,” Keith says and hates how stupid and breathless he sounds. He’s always been far too obvious when it comes to Shiro.

He thought he was over this. It’s been years, after all, and he’s an adult. And yet one look at Shiro’s handsome face and kind grey eyes and Keith feels like he’s fourteen all over again. 

“What brings you back to town?” Shiro asks after he returns from grabbing their teas. 

“Work,” Keith says, curling his finger around the massive mug, watching the color seep into the water as the tea steeps. At Shiro’s questioning hum, Keith glances up. “I’m part of a national research project on Altean Swans. I’m manning the nature reserve this winter.”

Keith expects the lack of interest when Keith talks about his work, but he doesn’t even get to his explanation of the work itself before Shiro sits upright, his grin spreading. “You ended up becoming an ornithologist after all!”

Keith flushes at the thought of Shiro even remembering anything about him, let alone his hope to work with birds one day. Keith used to never shut up about ornithology and birds in general. Clearly it stuck. 

“I, uh, not many people actually get that as their technical job title. But…” Keith laughs, fingers tight around the tea mug. It’s not the job title on his business card, but the effect is the same. “Yeah. I guess I did.” 

“Keith,” Shiro says, his smile so genuine it makes Keith’s heart ache. “That’s amazing. I’m so proud of you.” He’s barely touched his tea, too busy looking right at Keith in that gentle way he did before. He always did manage to make Keith feel like he was the only person in the world, like every word he said meant something to Shiro. 

Keith looks down at his mug, smiling to himself and quickly muffling it with a sip of his tea. He’s so used to being cranky at people that being around Shiro again feels disarming. His coworkers have long since accepted that Keith likes birds more than people. But Shiro? Well. Shiro is Shiro. 

“Usually I’m studying migration patterns, the effects of diverging diet, things like that,” Keith says. “But I’ve been on the Altean Swan project for a while now— reintroducing them into the wild, hatching the eggs, tracking population. But the two I’m studying now— they’re unique.” 

“Do you mean Red and Black?” Shiro asks.

Keith groans. “Ugh. I don’t know why people keep calling them that—” 

“Red’s always covered in blood. From biting people’s ankles,” Shiro says. “Black is… well. A black swan.”

Shiro explains it so earnestly, like Keith isn’t aware of the dumb reasons behind the nicknames. Keith rolls his eyes. The action makes Shiro laugh, that deep, honeyed sound that shoots right through Keith’s gut again. He’s really not prepared for an older Shiro and what he does to Keith’s stupid, betraying heart. 

“Anyway,” Keith says. “Yes. I mean 605 and 701. The numbers on their bands. They’re special.”

“Because they’re both girls?” Shiro asks.

Keith waves his hand dismissively. “Swans are known to do that. But it’s that, sure, but also that they aren’t migrating south for the winter and their diet’s different from other Altean swans— they adapted to changing climate in a way the others haven’t, for good or bad. I’ve been tracking them since before they even got to Altea Lake. I’ve been maintaining their habitat and keeping an eye on them.” 

Shiro nods. “That’s dedication.” 

Keith shrugs. “Well. What about you?” 

“Me?” Shiro asks, pointing to himself like there’s even a question of who Keith means. 

Keith wants to roll his eyes again. Instead, he points back at Shiro, mimicking his pose. “Well… what have you been up to?” 

Shiro makes a dismissive gesture, waving his hand in a little flap. “I’m boring. I’d much rather talk about you.”

Keith nearly chokes on a sip of his tea. He coughs a little, blushing and refusing to meet Shiro’s eye. 

“I heard you’re dating someone,” Shiro says and this time Keith _does_ choke on his tea, spitting it back into the cup. 

“What?” Keith squawks. “How—” 

“Our moms,” Shiro says, swirling a prosthetic finger along the lip of his cup. “They were in that same disability advocacy group for a few years. My mom heard from your mom that you were seeing someone? Er. I guess that was still like five years ago, though.” 

“I—” Keith shakes his head, still trying to fathom that in the time he’s been gone, Shiro’s heard about him. He knew his mom spoke with Mrs. Shirogane once or twice in the years since the move, but the two women since moved to different branches and online groups of their advocacy organization. It’s strange to think of Shiro asking after him.

Keith hates the reminder of all the near-misses, really. All the ways in which one of them could have reached out to the other— and didn’t. 

Shiro waits patiently, his gaze unrelenting. 

Keith’s not sure why he feels so flustered by the question. “I, uh. No. I’m not. That’s just something my parents thought for a while because I was getting bad about returning their calls. They thought I was dating.” 

The sad truth was that Keith was just buried under chemistry textbooks. 

It’s hard to move on and date other people once you’ve met the love of your life at age six, really. He’d been hung up on Shiro for years after he moved away, and then after that, his school was his focus— earning his bachelor’s and master’s at once in accelerated courses that stole all his time, attention, and energy. 

“Oh,” Shiro says, sounding thoughtful. “Well— that’s a shame, actually.” 

“What?” Keith asks, brow furrowing.

“Well, you’re such a great guy, Keith,” Shiro says with absolute confidence. His voice goes quiet, soft at the edges. “Anybody would be lucky to date you.” 

“Geez,” Keith says, ducking his head, hiding half his face beneath the collar of his coat, blushing deeply. His heart feels like it might crack open in his chest. 

Keith wonders if Shiro remembers their last meeting— what Shiro promised Keith. He could bring it up. Now’s as good a time as any. He could laugh about it, act like it’s a joke they’re reminiscing about from when they were stupid, young teenagers. He could make it a joke rather than the painful thorn in his heart that it actually is. 

Shiro smiles at him sweetly, something almost guarded in his eyes— like there’s more he could say but he’s waiting for Keith to say it first. The moment lapses between them, quiet and comfortable, and Keith doesn’t bring it up. He fiddles with his cup, dragging it closer towards him and taking a long sip of the tea within, piping hot and warming him from the inside out. 

“Thanks anyway,” Keith says absently, far too delayed for it to feel natural and nonchalant. “I’m not really looking to date or anything,” Keith mumbles. “Not— really looking at the whole romance thing. Maybe someday, I guess.” 

“Maybe…” Shiro says.

“What about you?” Keith asks, bracing himself for the answer. His eyes flicker down to Shiro’s hands but he doesn’t spot a ring. He holds his breath. 

Shiro notices his gaze. He shakes his head. “There was someone for a little while.” He shrugs. “Nothing to talk about. He got really weird about my illness sometimes. It just fizzled out after that.” He looks at Keith with a wry smile. “You know how I get when people treat me like glass.” 

Shiro lingers for a beat too long, a strange silence descending. Keith’s still reeling from the thought of Shiro actually being with someone and hating himself for the way it makes his heart twist up in his throat, leaving him mute.

“So, more importantly—” Shiro says, barreling past the quiet that suffocates around them. “When did you become a card-carrying ornithologist versus just a bird fanboy?” Shiro smiles, his eyes glittering with barely-suppressed teasing. “Feels like you were always stuck in trees trying to whistle at robins.”

Keith blushes all the way up to his ears. “I did that _once._ ” He clears his throat. “And anyway, the official transition happens as soon as you’re paid to conduct research on birds… guess that’s when you technically become an ornithologist.” 

“Got it,” Shiro says, chuckling. “First dollar exchange and, boom, you get to change your business card.” 

“Exactly.”

They sip their tea, although Keith’s so close to draining his own. He peers at the bottom of the cup and the dregs of lingering flakes of loose leaf tea. 

“Do you want a refill?” Keith asks. 

“Sure,” Shiro says, sliding his cup over. “You can top me off.”

Keith walks slowly towards the counter to ask for the refills of hot water, taking the opportunity to gather his thoughts. The day has proven far more social and overwhelming than he’d first expected, his heart thumping hard in his chest. 

He hadn’t expected to see Shiro so soon, not without preparing what he’d want to say or how he’d like to look. Absurd, really— like he was trying to prepare for meeting an ex. Shiro isn’t an ex, not really. An almost, maybe. But nobody can call another person an ex-almost. 

Keith stares at the cups even as the barista slides them towards him, waiting for him to leave the front counter. Keith still remembers their last day together, before Keith moved away, sitting in the backyard to watch birds and the sunset, but mostly just crying about having to leave one another. Theirs had been a lifelong friendship and it’d felt too painful, too infinite to be separated. Keith’s not sure if it’s fair to say that he mourned when they separated, but that’s what it felt like. It felt like the deepest mourning Keith’s ever known. 

He returns to Shiro, setting the cups back down and dropping in the infusers, focusing on that so he doesn’t have to meet Shiro’s eyes. 

The silence settles around them, although Keith doesn’t know if it’s a comfortable one or not. After a breath, he glances back up at Shiro to find him looking at him, his chin on his palm, elbow on the table, and his smile quiet and thoughtful, like he’s just drinking Keith in. He doesn’t even look embarrassed to have been caught staring. 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Shiro says fondly, and that’s just Shiro’s way— he’s so easy with his words. “How long are you staying?”

“Foreseeable future,” Keith says. “At least until the swans move on, I guess.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I rented a trailer out past Olkari Lane.” 

Shiro nods, frowning thoughtfully. “Do the swans keep you busy?”

Keith shrugs. Work is work, but he’s passionate about his tasks and his research— and aside from his general grumpiness at people, he enjoys what he does. 

“I just mean… if you wanted to spend more time together. Catching up,” Shiro says. He grips his mug. “One tea doesn’t feel like nearly enough time to catch up on ten years.” 

“Ten years,” Keith says faintly. “I can’t believe it’s been so long.”

Friendship and intimacy don’t come easily to Keith. He can count on one hand the number of people he trusts, beyond his parents, and Shiro’s easily the first name that comes to mind, even after a decade without seeing one another. Their friendship spanned their entire childhood and well into the teenage years. Shiro consumed an adolescent Keith’s mind constantly. 

It’s strange, how natural it feels to sit in this café with Shiro, feeling at once how much time has passed and how nothing has changed at all. 

He knows this face, handsome and beloved. He knows the way Shiro’s scar softens his face. He recognizes the shape of Shiro’s smile, the sparkle of his eyes, the curl and uncurl of his prosthetic fingers. Even if changed with age, Keith knows Shiro’s face, his voice, his laugh. He’s older now— his hair fully silver, his shoulders broader, jaw sharper— but otherwise, it’s still Shiro. 

It’s Shiro. 

“Time flies,” Shiro agrees. “I mean. No pressure if you’re busy. I just thought… it’d be nice to catch up with you properly.”

“Shiro,” Keith says. His heart clenches in his chest. “I always have time for you.” 

It’d been hard to move away from Altea Springs. After his mom got the research project of her dreams— following the pathing and packing of Galra wolves through the northern US— Keith and his family had spent the better part of three years traveling by RV across state lines. With no stable address and no stable phone number, it’d been hard to keep in touch with Shiro— and the more time passed, and the less Keith heard from Shiro, the more anxious he became about reaching out at all. As was the way of such things, eventually they fell out of touch entirely. 

“First things first, then. Let me give you my number,” Shiro says, fishing around in his pocket and pulling out an old cell phone. Shiro looks at Keith, holding the phone out. “You punch it in. That way I know for sure it’s right.” 

Keith takes the phone and types in his number diligently. Shiro has Keith double-check it before he saves the new contact and texts Keith his number, too. He smiles wider when he hears Keith’s phone buzz in his hand. 

“Great,” Shiro says with a pleased sigh. 

Keith lingers, but even as he does, he knows it’ll never be enough time. He looks up at Shiro. 

“I should be getting back to work,” Keith says.

Shiro sighs again. “Yeah. Me too, I guess. And I need to get these groceries home.” He smiles as he looks at Keith, his eyes softening. “I’m so glad I ran into you, Keith. I’ve— I hoped we’d meet again, you know?” 

Keith’s betraying heart leaps in his chest. “Y- yeah.” 

Shiro continues, “I’ll text you, okay? We can find a time to hang out.” 

“Yeah, Shiro,” Keith says. “I’d like that a lot.” 

-

Keith is distracted for the rest of the day, stuck thinking about Shiro. He nearly trips over the swans as he makes his way back to the park. They squawk at him in outrage, 605 throwing her wings out and charging towards him, a blur of white and red. It’s just a back-off display, one without true threat, as she stops a few yards away from Keith, beating her wings.

“Yeah, sorry,” Keith says. “Your territory, I get it.” 

He backs off, retreating to his usual park bench and fishing out his field notebook to observe and take his shorthand. The white swan circles around the park, spiraling her way back towards 701. That’s the white one’s tendency— the black one has more range, wandering where she pleases, but the white one never really strays far from the black one. 

Overprotective, some might say. Keith knows better than to project onto swans and read human characteristics into them. He gets the urge in theory, but he is also of the opinion that people who do that are stupid. 

But then again, Keith has very little tolerance for people. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket. His heart leaps, wondering if it’s Shiro already. But when he fishes it out, it’s another work email. 

The rest of the day is uneventful as it passes. Keith does his work, records his findings, and packs up for the night once the swans fly off again back towards Altea Lake. Keith fills half his tank with gas and drives down Olkari Lane to the old trailer usually rented out to the park rangers or those in charge of the nature reserve. It’s nothing special, but it serves Keith well enough. He did spend his teenage years living in an RV with his parents and then a cramped dorm-room during all of college; the trailer feels downright decadent in comparison. 

After not hearing from Shiro right away, he nearly convinces himself it’s a mistake— that Shiro was, in the end, being polite and has no intention of spending more time with Keith. It’s been ten years, after all. There’s no reason Shiro should feel anything for Keith beyond nostalgia for lost years. They aren’t kids anymore. 

Keith might have been hung up on Shiro in the time after he moved, but he has plenty of reason to know the feeling was not mutual. Maybe Shiro’s happiness at seeing him was just guilt for what they left behind. 

Keith is fully prepared to spend the rest of the evening feeling sorry for himself when his phone chimes in his pocket. Sighing and bracing for another disappointing work email, he fishes his phone out.

It’s a text from Shiro. Relief washes through him so quickly that his vision swims. 

**From Shiro, sent 7:22pm:** it was srsly so good to see you today!!!!!!!!

And before Keith can even respond, Shiro sends a follow-up text:

**From Shiro, sent 7:22pm:** I know I keep saying that but it’s true!!!

Warmth floods into Keith and he feels his cheeks turn pink. So many exclamation points. He’s never experienced this before, the simplicity of texting with Shiro— he got his first cell phone at age nineteen and never had the dumb pleasure of exchanging texts with his best friend. He climbs beneath the blanket draped on the old couch, cuddling up in the corner of it before typing out a quick response. 

**To Shiro, sent 7:23pm:** It was good to see you too

-

Days on the lake or in the park are monotonous at best, but Keith’s always benefited from routine. He’s not great at establishing habits, but once he has them, he’s great with them. Routine is helpful for him and it often makes him uncomfortable to stray from it. 

He wakes in the morning, prepares for the day with a quick breakfast, answers work emails, trucks out to the lake, watches the swans, follows the swans, records the swans, returns home, answers more work emails, and sleeps. When he’s feeling particularly masochistic, he’ll work on grant proposals. The trailer has an old TV but it doesn’t have cable and Keith isn’t interested in any of the dusty DVDs on the shelves, or the paperbacks with cracked spines, so he tends to spend the evenings just _thinking_ until he falls asleep, or sketching in his notebook— mostly birds, but the occasional nature scene, too. Some of them are official sketches he’ll include in his reports, but most of them are just for him. 

The swans stick to the lake for the next few days, so Keith doesn’t have any reason to drive into town. His phone sits heavy in his pocket, begging for him to text Shiro some more. 

He’s trying not to be weird about it. They were friends once, yes, and they were friendly enough when they met again, but Keith can’t help but think that in the end, they’re strangers— he hasn’t been in Shiro’s life for so long. He doesn’t want to come on too strong and make it weird. He doesn’t want to ruin all the good memories with his own clinginess.

He’s independent and he’s learned to take care of himself. He doesn’t want to be clingy to an old best friend— it’d be too weird. He knows better than to get attached. 

The loneliness feels as haunting as a sandhill crane’s call, low and reverberating. Keith’s used to the loneliness— something cold and centered deep in his chest. 

If he were one to project onto birds, there’d be a metaphor there. All birds fly away, eventually.

He looks up from his notes, seeking the swans. They aren’t at their usual place and Keith frowns, eyes scanning along the lake. His hand lifts for his binoculars, still hanging secure around his neck, and scans the far shore. He’d have heard them if they started flying, considering how quiet it is out here in the nature reserve. 

After some quick scanning, he spots them about a quarter mile to his right, along a slow bend in the lake. Keith drops his binoculars and frowns when he spots someone feeding the swans. 

He hoists himself to his feet and starts stomping, adrenaline pulsing through him. If he has to yell at another person feeding moldy bread to a swan, he’s about to lose his mind. Maybe he should consider himself lucky that someone’s feeding them rather than trying to kick them, but it’s an annoyance all the same, and a disturbance. 

There are plenty of walking paths through the nature reserve, although less-walked during the winter months, it seems. Keith didn’t see this guy come in along the wood chip path, but Keith’s ready for a fight all the same.

_People._ He’s so over it. 

“Hey, asshole!” Keith yells a few minutes later once he gets into hearing distance. “What the fuck do you think you’re—”

The man turns and it’s Shiro. 

Keith stops in his tracks, so startled to see Shiro so soon after their last meeting that he isn’t sure what to make of his presence. Instead of moldy bread, Shiro’s holding a bag of spinach, strewn along the water’s surface rather than on land. The swans clip up the leaves with mouthfuls of water, swimming in slow circles. Swans aren’t greedy creatures, so there’s no danger of them overeating, and a couple of stray leaves that don’t meet their satisfaction float along the water’s surface. 

“Hi, Keith!” Shiro says, sounding far too chipper in the early morning. His breath mists when he speaks, his cheeks pink from the cold. He has a rainbow hat on today, covering his ears, and his coat is zipped all the way up to his chin. 

Keith’s unsure how he failed to recognize Shiro during his rage-stomping, but in fairness, he’s still picturing Shiro as a gangly sixteen-year-old, someone who’s starting to bulk up but is still definitely an awkward teenager. 

It still feels like a shot to the heart to see Shiro older, grown— too tall, too broad, too stupid-buff. Too fucking hot. 

In any case, Keith feels his frustration evaporate. “Um. Hi— hey, Shiro.” 

He walks towards him now, mindful not to slip on any of the icy mud and stops a short distance from Shiro. Shiro beams at him and then looks down at the bag of spinach. 

“Am I not supposed to feed them? I looked up what swans eat a while ago to make sure I wouldn’t hurt them, and the internet told me that they like leafy greens.” 

“What are you doing here?” Keith asks, his heart kicking up in his chest to think that maybe Shiro’s shown up to talk with _him._

Shiro beams at him, rolling up the bag of spinach and closing it off with a rubber band he pulls from his pocket. 

“I like to go for walks to clear my head,” Shiro says. “I usually walk earlier in the morning— before sunrise, even— so I don’t think I’ve seen you here while you were doing your research.” He gestures towards the swans, who still paddle a short distance away. Their interest is fading fast now that Shiro’s tucked away the spinach. 

“Oh,” Keith says. 

“I’m glad you’re here this morning, though,” Shiro says, smiling pleasantly. He’s always been relentlessly friendly. “Good morning!” 

“Morning,” Keith mumbles back, feeling wrong footed through this entire exchange. He glances over at the swans. “I’m shocked they’re not attacking you.” 

“Yeah, they do that a lot, huh? I’ve heard the horror stories.” He shrugs. “I don’t know… they’re not overly friendly with me, but they don’t attack me. I don’t think Red’s ever flapped at me, either.” 

Keith nods. “I feel like their bodyguards half the time. Or their publicist.” He rolls his eyes. “I know the town would rather have them gone, but…” 

“I think they’re pretty,” Shiro says. “I love walking down here. Watching birds relaxes me!” He laughs, a soft, self-deprecating sound. “It makes me think of you as a kid and how super into birds you were.”

Keith blushes, shoving his hands into the pockets of his thin jacket— he never did buy a new one in town— and shrugs his shoulders. 

Keith remembers the feeders his parents had in the backyard— he’d spend endless hours just sitting at the window and watching the different birds that visited. His dad used to joke that Keith was like a cat in that way, how he could sit so still, nose pressed to the glass, and study them with hyper fixation. It’d been the different colors, the delicate splay of feathers. 

His mom loves to tell the story of Keith memorizing all the different types of birds at the feeder, knowing their names enough that he tricked his mom and dad into thinking he knew how to read because he could point to those birds in the field guide on the coffee table in the front room. He was two years old at the time. 

_A mini-bird genius,_ Shiro had teased when they were kids. He’d said it like he was proud of Keith. 

He remembers watching birds with Shiro, sometimes in the fields behind their houses or sometimes from Shiro’s bedroom window when he had a particularly nasty flare-up, muscle pain keeping him in bed. Shiro always liked birds, too. He thought they were cute. _I like how puffed up they get,_ Shiro used to say. _It reminds me of you when you get angry._ Shiro would laugh at his own joke then, like it was the funniest comedy in the world. Keith had been too smitten to truly mind. 

“Does me feeding them mess with your work?” Shiro asks. “I can stop.” 

Keith sighs, shaking his head. “Just don’t overdo it. The reserve doesn’t have a rule against feeding under supervision but… just don’t feed them while they’re on land.” 

Shiro nods. “Okay. I promise I don’t do it too often. Just sometimes when I come down here from the farm and I have too many greens for myself.” 

“Farm?” Keith asks.

Shiro brightens. “Oh— I guess I forgot to mention that part.” He jerks his thumb back over his shoulder, gesturing towards the looming hill rising past the sprinkling of trees lining the nature reserve. “My farm is just over that hill. It’s part of the historic land trust and—” 

“Wait,” Keith says, brow furrowing. “You own a farm?” 

Shiro laughs at him, a deep chuckle that punches Keith low in his gut. “A lavender farm, yeah.” 

That explains why Shiro smells like lavender, Keith thinks absently. He probably shouldn’t be smelling his childhood best friend, honestly, but it wafts off of him gently. It’s impossible to ignore. 

The revelation is at once surprising and expected. Shiro used to love gardening, working in the dirt with his dad. Keith would find him in his backyard more often than not, trying to coax tomatoes to grow and shoving zucchini off on Keith whenever he got the chance.

Keith blinks when he realizes Shiro’s still speaking, explaining. “Not much to do in winter when the plants are overwintering, so they’re covered up for now— but wow you should see it during the on-season, Keith! I also have a little storefront in the old barn for products, where I host the farmer’s market and—”

“Why lavender?” Keith interrupts. 

Shiro pauses in his explanation and then hums. “People ask me that all the time, but the honest answer isn’t anything profound. People say that lavender’s hard to grow and I decided I liked being stubborn.”

“You always were,” Keith says faintly. Shiro never did give up on those tomatoes. Keith shakes his head against the rush of affection such a confession pulls from him. “So. Is it, uh… going well?” 

“The rainshadow helps,” Shiro says. “And I have a few loyal customers and a few other florists and craftsmen I sell the lavender to, so I get by. During the summers, I’ll let people walk through the fields, so it’s a nice enough tourist spot.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I mean. Small businesses. I get by, sometimes better than other times.”

“Well. If you’re enjoying it…” 

It sounds stupid as soon as he says it. He’s just not sure what to say, awkward in the way he is, but Shiro just smiles like he’s used to it. Maybe he remembers Keith’s particular brand of awkwardness. He’s not good at small talk, but Shiro was always so understanding. He never expected Keith to be anything other than himself. 

Keith never felt so understood as when he was by Shiro’s side. 

“I am,” Shiro says. He pauses, studying Keith, and then adds, “Your eyes remind me of lavender.” 

Keith blinks at him, unsure what to make of such a statement. He has to look away, blushing.

“Anyway,” Shiro says quietly. “I’m sorry if I’m taking you away from your work. I can leave you to it.” 

Keith shakes his head. “I, uh. It’s fine. Sorry I took you away from… feeding birds.” 

Shiro laughs like Keith’s told some hilarious joke. Keith hesitates, feeling his own mouth flicker with a smile. His own awkwardness aside, it’s hard not to fall back into Shiro’s orbit. It’s laughably easy, actually, like no time has passed at all. It’s strange to feel that quiet revelation— that Shiro might understand him, even now. 

“I, um… wouldn’t mind the company,” Keith says quietly, his heart racing. “If you wanted.” 

Shiro brightens and the immediate response is infinitely reassuring for Keith— there’s no hiding Shiro’s genuine delight. He has an abysmal poker face with Keith. 

“I’d love that,” Shiro says. “My cousin’s watching the storefront for me, so I have some time.” 

“If you’d rather just take your long walk…” Keith says. He nods back towards the way he came. “But I usually just sit on the old fishing pier to watch them.” 

“Lead the way,” Shiro says, and falls easily to Keith’s side as they make their way back. “Are you always out here with them?” 

“I only need to monitor them at certain hours of the day, to check in on them,” Keith says. “But I don’t really have anything else to do. So I mostly just stay out here. Come spring, we’re expecting more funding so I can set up some motion-sensor cameras for the hours I’m not here. For now… I just spend most of my time out here, even when I’m not watching the swans.”

“What do you do then?” 

“Draw, sometimes,” Keith says. “Think the other times. I don’t mind the quiet. I’m used to being on my own.” 

“Do you enjoy working with them?” Shiro asks, nodding towards the lake. 

“Sure,” Keith says. He eyes Shiro. “You’re like one of the only people I’ve run into who doesn’t hate the swans on sight. I’ve seen way too many people try to kick them.” 

“I guess people are just surprised by it,” Shiro says, hands on his hips as he watches the swans swim away, gliding easily through the water. “I mean, swans are supposed to be these graceful, beautiful, delicate things, and Red at least is kind of an asshole. I guess the overprotectiveness makes sense, if swans mate for life.” 

“They don’t,” Keith says flatly. “Not really. No birds actually mate for life the way people think they do.” 

Shiro laughs, like Keith’s abrupt answer has taken him by surprise. “Not a fan of the romance of lovebirds then, I take it.”

Keith scoffs, trying to rein his frustration back in— it’s a pet peeve, but it’s not Shiro’s fault if he doesn’t know that. “It’s all romanticism. People shouldn’t project onto birds to justify their own views on romance.” 

“You always were so practical, Keith,” Shiro says, voice soft with affection. He lets it drop. “So for non-work activities… no bird-watching for you?” 

“I know all the birds in the area,” Keith says with a shrug, shoving his hands into his pockets. He doesn’t know what to do with Shiro’s genuine interest. “I don’t think they can take me by surprise so I don’t really need to watch.” 

There’s a whole range of birder-types. The casual birders who just like birds and set up feeders in the yard, just looking at birds and appreciating them. And then there’s the extreme birders, listers who love numbers. They focus on seeing as many species as possible in any given time. Any time a rare bird shows up, they’ll chase it— get right into their car or a plane and fly to see it. 

Keith doesn’t keep a list. He keeps track of birds that he sees, generally, and he knows the ones he’s seen and hasn’t seen. He enjoys birds and he likes watching them— but he doesn’t chase them. 

The small, distant voice in his head wants to say something sappy— like how he can be patient, and Shiro was the one to teach him that. He resists the thought but just barely. No projecting onto birds or bird-watching. 

“So, what’s your favorite bird?” Shiro asks as they reach the old dock, walking out to the edge of it and sitting down side by side. Shiro lets his legs swing out over the side, his boots dangerously close to skimming the top of the water.

The swans are back to roaming the lake, gliding along serenely side-by-side. 

Keith snorts. “I don’t have one.” 

Shiro’s eyes light up in surprise— and undisguised delight. It leaves Keith feeling a little fuzzy, a warmth glowing in his chest.

“Sounds like you,” Shiro says. “Then… any you’re particularly fond of but aren’t necessarily your favorite-favorite, then?” 

“Mostly just the birds I’ve studied and gotten to know,” Keith says. The phrasing makes Shiro chuckle, but it feels like the gentleness of a joke shared between friends rather than at Keith’s expense. But Keith knows that about Shiro. 

“And which have you ‘gotten to know?’” Shiro asks with undisguised delight. 

“There’s these birds in California called Daibazaal Rails,” Keith says. “They’re only found in salt-marshes outside San Francisco and San Diego, sometimes between. They’re endangered and yeah— I studied them before I moved onto the Altean Swans. I actually named them.”

“You named them?” Shiro asks, grinning.

“With my advisor,” Keith says. “The scientific name was already decided because that’s priority, you know? But there wasn’t a common name yet, so we just… got to name them. People complain the name is a huge mouthful.” He shrugs. “Lots of bird names are hard to say though, so I think people just like to complain.” 

“Who knew the bird world was so unsympathetic,” Shiro teases, smiling. “Sounds like you’ve been doing so much in the time you’ve been gone, Keith. I’m happy for you. You’re doing what you love.”

Keith ducks his head, drawing his legs up to press his knees to his chest. The praise zings through him, the way it always does when Shiro compliments him. Maybe he should be unsettled that Shiro still has such an instant effect on him. 

Shiro kicks his feet through the air, his heel catching on the water and sending a splash of ripples outward. Keith watches the water in silence for a long moment, just trying to find his equilibrium. 

There’s nothing inherently romantic about birds. There’s nothing inherently romantic about this moment, either. 

Keith bites the inside of his cheek. He hesitates and then pushes through it, knowing he has to say it: “I’m sorry I didn’t… really keep in touch.” 

It feels like he’s been punched in the gut as soon as he says it, terrified of Shiro’s response. Shiro is still for a moment, his fingers curled around the edge of the old pier, fingertips pressing against the old wooden planks. It takes him a moment, but he turns towards Keith, his expression unreadable for a moment. 

“I—” Shiro starts but cuts himself off, as if uncertain what to say. He looks down, expression rippling. When he looks at Keith again, his eyes are only soft and earnest. “It’s fine, Keith. We… we were kids.” 

Keith nods, feeling his throat closing up tight. He’s not sure if the acceptance is dismissal or reprieve. He doesn’t know how to feel with the response. 

Shiro looks like he wants to say more, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Shiro says. “It’s…” He looks down, his smile a pained little thing. “These things happen all the time, right? Whether we wanted them to or not.” 

“I guess,” Keith says. He wants to ask. He wants to ask the question burning in his mind, but he swallows it back. “Just didn’t… want that to be us, too.” 

They felt infinite. It always felt like it was them against everybody else, a duo that couldn’t be separated. Their parents used to joke about it all the time. They balanced each other out. 

Keith is one of those people who gets annoyed when he hears the wrong bird-call in the background of a movie. Bald eagles, the classic example, make Keith grind his teeth whenever he hears a redtail hawk’s screech instead. 

He gets it. Bald eagles sound stupid as hell. But it still bothers him. 

Shiro was a comforting force, like the eye of a storm. When stupid shit annoyed Keith, Shiro could calm him down. Keith likes to think that he was good at keeping Shiro calm, too, when it mattered. 

“But hey,” Shiro says gently, picking up into the silence between them. “Seems we’re getting a second chance now, right?”

Keith looks up at Shiro, studying his smile. Small, hopeful. Longing, maybe, or maybe Keith’s just projecting. He wants to believe that Shiro missed him as much as Keith did, too. 

“Yeah,” Keith says quietly. “I guess we are.” 

“So let’s make the most of it.” Shiro smiles, something heartbroken in his expression. “If— you want, right?” 

Keith nods, his heart leaping. 

“I do.” 

Shiro breathes out, his eyes bright. “I do, too.” And then he smiles. “So— if you’re not too busy with the swans tomorrow, you should stop by the farm. The market starts at nine and there’s lots of cool things for sale, not just food. Come visit my booth and I’ll give you a lavender candle.” 

“What could I possibly need a lavender candle for?” Keith asks, laughing.

“They smell nice and they’re handmade by yours truly,” Shiro says with a small flourish, pressing his hand to his chest. “It’ll give you some ambiance.” 

“Or I’ll just start to smell like you,” Keith says.

Shiro blinks. “Oh. Do I smell like lavender?” 

He turns his head and sniffs his collar. Keith watches on, perplexed. 

Shiro laughs at his expression. “I’m kind of nose-blind to it now. It all just reminds me of soap… I used to love the smell and now I’m really sick of it. Sorry if it’s strong.”

“You smell nice,” Keith says and then sputters. “I don’t— Um. It’s a nice smell, I mean.” 

“Glad to hear it,” Shiro laughs, cheeks pink. “So, you’ll come?” 

As if Keith has anything else going on. “Yeah. I’ll come.” 

“Great,” Shiro says, his smile so bright in the gloomy winter morning— and Keith feels warm all over again. 

-

Somehow, when Keith pictured the farmer’s market, he expected something small and lowkey. He’s a bit shocked to see the parking lot full when he pulls up on Shiro’s farm. He has to park on the street leading up towards the barn. All around him, the fields are covered in thick tarps and sheets, the air smelling more of mulch than lavender. 

The barn is massive when Keith hikes his way to it, filled to the brim with booths lined up in rows, and a few spilling out into the open air. There’s produce, although a limited supply in these winter months— a lot of jarred and pickled products, an abundance of kale and other leafy greens, and hearty potatoes and turnips. The artisan booths sport hand-woven shawls, wind chimes made from seashells, soaps, honeys, candles, and the like. Keith’s never seen anything like it.

He has to wander around before he finds Shiro’s booth, tucked into the far corner in the very last row. Shiro’s busy organizing his wares, making sure everything is lined up. Again, Keith isn’t sure what he expected, but it’s not the wide array of products Shiro has. There are dried lavender bundles and essential oils, the expected things, sure. But Shiro also has hand soaps and foamy soaps, bath salts and bath bombs, lotions and oils, candles, baking mixes and teas, even jars of peppercorns mixed with lavender fronds. 

“Keith!” Shiro says when he looks up and spots him standing there. 

Shiro recovers from his brief shock and instead grins wildly. He’s wearing the rainbow hat again today, although the barn is warm with enough people walking around and lights shining above that he’s shed his winter coat. He’s rolled up the sleeves to his henley and it’s devastating to see the flex of his forearm and the glint of his prosthesis as he works, shuffling and organizing his booth. He’s unspeakably handsome and in his element, grinning at Keith like he’s been waiting for him all day.

“You made it,” Shiro says, straightening up. It puts unnecessary attention on the stretch of his shirt over his chest, the subtle definition of his pecs. “Here—” 

He squats down behind the table and pulls up a lavender-colored paper bag, grinning. He holds it out to Keith.

“Your candle,” Shiro says. “As promised.”

Keith reaches for his wallet.

Shiro shakes his head, waving his hand. “No, no. It’s a gift. It’s fine.”

“You were literally just telling me yesterday that you just ‘get by’ in the winter,” Keith says, fishing out a bill from his wallet. “Let me, Shiro.” 

Shiro presses his lips together, looking like he wants to protest. He takes the money Keith offers, but doesn’t hand the bag over. Instead, he reaches for a few other goods, tucking them into the bag. 

“No protesting or refusing gifts, Keith,” Shiro says with a wink when Keith opens his mouth to say something. The wink slams hard into Keith’s chest and leaves him mute. He watches as Shiro finishes packing up the bag and holds it out again. “Here you go. Thanks for coming.”

“You didn’t need to bribe me into showing up,” Keith mutters, blushing as he takes the bag. 

“I’m still glad you did.” 

Keith shakes his head, smiling to himself as he looks around. “I didn’t expect you to be all the way back here.”

Shiro shrugs. “I host, so it feels rude to put myself in one of the best spots. I don’t mind, especially since I do have a storefront that’s open the rest of the week. Least I can do to give the others a fighting chance. Did you check any out?”

Keith shakes his head. He’d glanced around, but he’d looked for Shiro first and didn’t let himself linger anywhere else. 

“You should,” Shiro says. “They’re all amazing work. Guaranteed.” 

“Maybe,” Keith says, making no move to leave the booth. He looks at his collection of lavender-based products. “Good day?”

“I’ve had a few grabs for the bath salts,” Shiro says, patting the tubs affectionately. “They’re easily my best sellers. I know a thing or two about the power of Epsom salt.” He tilts his head, studying Keith. “Does your trailer have a bathtub?” 

Keith snorts. “Obviously not.”

“Well if you ever want to try these, feel free to use mine,” Shiro says, laughing. 

Keith blushes all the way up to his ears and hates how much he stutters when he answers, “I’ll, uh, keep that in mind. Thanks.” 

Now he’s thinking about Shiro in a bathtub, which is not an image he needs to harbor too deeply. But once it’s in his mind, he can’t stop thinking about it. The henley is doing wonders for visualizing just what Shiro looks like shirtless, considering how tightly the ribbed fabric hugs him. The last thing Keith needs to be doing is picturing peeling Shiro’s layers back until he’s naked and sitting in a bathtub surrounded by lavender bubble bath, and yet here he is doing just that.

He clears his throat, setting his bag down on the table’s edge. He’s not sure what to say. He feels too stupid and foolish, like a little kid again standing in front of his crush and despairing. He fiddles with some of the tissue paper peeking out from the bag. 

“Hey,” Shiro says. “If you want… I could show you around?” 

“Don’t you need to watch your booth?” Keith asks.

Shiro shrugs. “I can set out a ‘be back in ten minutes’ thing. I don’t mind wandering and nobody around here’s going to steal lavender soap.” 

“If you’re sure… I don’t want to put you out,” Keith says. 

Shiro’s already coming around the side of the booth, shrugging into his coat. Keith despairs to see his arms covered again. “I don’t mind. I’d love to just walk around with you.”

“Oh,” Keith says, and nearly cringes for how unenthusiastic and stilted he sounds. He wishes he could relax in general. He wishes it could be as easy for him as it seems for Shiro. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, Shiro.” 

Shiro zips up his coat and jerks his head towards the back entrance to the barn. Keith follows him wordlessly as they weave through the stands. A few vendors wave to Shiro and he waves back, but he doesn’t stop. A big hand touches the small of Keith’s back to guide him and Keith nearly startles straight out of his skin because of it. 

“Here’s the first big field,” Shiro says as they emerge into the daylight. He points towards a heavily tarped field. “It looks better in summer.” 

“Well,” Keith says. “I’ll have to come back in the summer.”

Shiro hums, smiling as he shields his eyes, peering out over the field. It’s not much to look at beyond the white tarps and the brown mulch, a murder of crows scuttling along one tarp in the middle-distance. 

“I hope you’re still here in the summer,” Shiro says pleasantly, and there’s nothing weighted in the words, but it still makes Keith flush. “I want you to see the farm in full swing. I promise I’m not a complete vagabond.” 

“I didn’t think you were,” Keith says, overly earnest. He knows Shiro’s teasing, but he can’t help it. 

“I tend to be really busy in the summer, but I bet the birds are great then,” Shiro says. “You have to promise to take me bird-watching. Like when we were kids.” 

Keith chuckles. “You want to get your eyes on some finches and tits, huh?” 

Shiro stumbles over an elevated patch of ground as they trace along the fence line. His prosthetic hand catches on the rung of the fence to steady himself. Keith reaches for him instinctively, catching him by the elbow.

“Careful,” Keith says. 

“Yeah, sorry,” Shiro says, pink-cheeked. “I lost track of my feet, I guess.” 

Keith thinks of their reunion, Shiro slipping on ice and nearly cracking his head open. “Seems to happen to you a lot.”

Shiro chuckles, although the sound is strained. 

They walk along the fence, tracing along the edge of Shiro’s farm. The fields stretch relatively far, but modestly sized for a farm. The trees lining the edge of the nature reserve wave in the wind in the distance, marking the property line. 

The walk is a peaceful one, the two of them lapsing into a comfortable silence when Shiro isn’t outlining the history of the farm— what it was before Shiro bought it, what he’s changed since acquiring it, the different types of lavender he grows. Keith looks over the farm, eyes glancing over the little farmhouse near the top. It’s also of modest size, white paneling and a vintage weathervane at the top of the roof, a rooster swiveling against the wind. It makes Keith smile to see it. 

“There’s the path down into the nature reserve,” Shiro says, pointing. “Unofficial, obviously. But I’ve admittedly worn it down after the last couple years.”

Keith nods, eyeing the space between two trees. As if by an unspoken suggestion, they both start wandering in that direction. 

“So,” Shiro says.

“Mm?”

“Is it still important to be up in a tree to birdwatch?” 

Keith frowns, glancing up at Shiro. “What do you—” 

Shiro doesn’t wait for Keith to answer, stepping up to one of the nearest trees and already scrambling up it. Keith barks a shocked little laugh as he watches him— one moment Shiro’s on solid ground and the next, he’s climbing up towards the first lowest-hanging branch. 

Keith trots up to the trunk, looking up to watch Shiro’s legs kick at the tree’s trunk, searching for purchase. Shiro grunts— and it’s a frankly heavenly sound— as he heaves himself up onto the branch and sits down.

“Tree-climbing is unrequired to enjoy birds,” Keith says. “Plus, I think there’s only crows right now.”

“I love my farm’s crows,” Shiro says. “And if I know anything about birds, it’s that we don’t fuck with crows.” 

“A good rule of thumb,” Keith agrees, laughing. 

“You coming up here?” Shiro asks and then drops his hand down, holding it out to Keith like he’ll just heave him into the tree one-handed. Considering the bulk of Shiro’s muscles, Keith wouldn’t be surprised if he could. 

Curious more than anything else, Keith reaches up to grasp Shiro’s hand.

Shiro does, indeed, haul Keith up like he weighs nothing, grunting again in that sinful way of his, and helping tug Keith up onto the branch.

“Holy shit.” 

Shiro grins, rolling his arm and digging his fingers against his shoulder, easing out the tension from his prosthesis. “Thanks. I work out.”

“Cutting down all that lavender,” Keith says, his chest all twisted up. Shiro just grins, chuckling. Keith clears his throat, glancing away at the new view of the farm. “So… here we are. Birdwatching.” 

“This doesn’t count for the official birdwatching,” Shiro says. “Just a taste. You owe me a proper outing.” 

Keith hums absently, listening. He can hear distant twitterings of birdsong, the thump of a distant woodpecker. The position isn’t actually a bad place to be if there were any quails or grouse nearby, although the landscape is barren enough in the winter that Keith’s not so sure if they’d even be around the farm. 

“You look so serious,” Shiro teases. “Have any cool bird facts for me?” 

Keith rolls his eyes with far too much fondness. “What counts as a cool bird fact?” 

“Anything you have to say.” 

Keith laughs like it’s a joke, shaking his head. “I think most of my facts are just dumb nerd stuff.”

“That’s not true.” 

He turns to look at Shiro to find him already looking at him— in that quiet, sweet, intense way of his. Keith’s breath hitches, going quiet in his lungs. He stills, just looking back. 

The smallest hummingbird on earth, the bee hummingbird, has a heart rate of twelve hundred beats per minute. It feels like nothing compared to how Keith’s heart pounds, staring into Shiro’s eyes. 

“I think it’s great that you’re doing what you love, Keith,” Shiro says. 

Keith swallows. “… Thanks, Shiro.” 

He doesn’t look away from Shiro and Shiro seems content to keep looking at him, too. They sit in the tree together, staring into one another’s eyes, and it feels at once so familiar and so different. It feels like so many weekends with his best friend as kids, causing trouble and exploring nature. It feels far too different, though, to look into Shiro’s handsome face, to see the way time has passed, and meet the eyes of someone so familiar, so once known. 

Looking at Shiro so intensely, too, reminds Keith of the last night before he moved away. The urge to look away, to close his eyes, to pull away, is so intense. And just as much as he feels it, he feels the urge to go to Shiro instead, to burrow against him. 

It hardly feels like ten years at all. It feels too much like they’ve picked up right where they left it— even with so much time passing between them. Shiro hardly seems to have changed at all. 

Shiro smiles, a soft, secretive thing. His eyes move in tiny flickering movements, tracing across Keith’s face. 

Keith wonders, ridiculously, if Shiro will kiss him. 

“Should we head back?” Keith asks, not willing to rip his eyes away just yet. 

“Mm?”

“To your booth,” Keith says. 

Shiro shrugs one shoulder. “Are you cold?”

“Huh? No.”

“Are you sure?” Shiro asks. “Every time I see you, you’re shivering— your coat looks really thin.” He lifts one hand, as if he might touch Keith, but ends up simply gesturing to Keith’s coat. 

Keith keeps meaning to buy a new one and he just hasn’t gotten around to it. He shrugs, glancing down at himself. “I’m fine.” 

“Nonsense,” Shiro says, swinging his legs out and hopping down off the lowest branch. It’s a bigger fall than it looks, but Shiro makes it look effortless, landing easily and pivoting to look back up at Keith.

He holds his hands out to Keith, a silent offering to help him down. From anyone else, Keith would be insulted by the implication he can’t handle coming down on his own. Even when it’s Shiro, Keith still frowns, hesitating. But the temptation is too strong— he reaches for Shiro and lets Shiro hold him. Keith braces his hands on Shiro’s shoulders and lets Shiro cup his hips, bringing him down slowly as Keith’s feet touch solid ground once again. 

And then Shiro steps back and unzips his coat. Keith’s ready to protest, but Shiro doesn’t move to take off his jacket, just holds it open. 

“Come here,” Shiro says as he wraps his jacket around Keith and tugs him into a hug. His voice is light with teasing, but his hold is firm, leaving no room for Keith to squirm away. Between the warmth of Shiro’s coat and the warmth radiating from his chest, Keith feels red in the face. 

“When did you get so tall?” Keith mutters. It makes Shiro laugh, the sound reverberating in his chest and rattling into Keith’s very core. 

“I was just thinking the same about you!” Shiro says, laughing still, and it makes Keith flush further. He can’t tell if Shiro’s teasing him outright or if he really means it. Shiro tucks his chin up against the top of Keith’s head, curling around him. Shiro clears his throat and Keith can feel the vibration of it. “Your shoulders are, uh… really wide.”

“Hm,” Keith grunts, unsure what to make of such a statement. He also has no idea where to put his hands, and so lets them hang limp at his sides. “Not as wide as yours.” 

“Are you feeling warmer?” Shiro asks, the grin in his voice almost unbearably smug. 

Keith presses his face against Shiro’s chest and forgets to worry about that being far too familiar. “This is a very thick coat.” 

“Yep!” Shiro says cheerfully, shaking the coat out to wrap it more firmly around Keith. “It’s good quality. I recommend it.” 

“Right,” Keith says. He pauses. “What are we supposed to do now? We can hardly walk like this.” 

“I’ll just hold you until you feel completely warm again,” Shiro says with confidence. “And then I’ll make you wear my hat.”

“Shiro, no—”

“Shiro, yes,” Shiro says, again with far too much smugness. He squeezes Keith tight, nearly picking him off the ground entirely. “You’ll look good in a rainbow hat.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Keith mutters and then gives into the temptation to pinch Shiro’s side. He’s just as ticklish as Keith remembers and it’s worth it to hear his surprised squeak as he squirms away.

Shiro makes a lazy swipe for him but Keith darts away, laughing as he ducks around Shiro reaching for him again, his coat flapping in the breeze. 

“Better button up, Shiro,” Keith says, laughing as Shiro whips off his hat and tries to force it onto Keith’s head. “I wouldn’t want you to get cold—”

“Damn it, Keith,” Shiro laughs, chasing after him, his beanie held open as threateningly as a beanie can look. He dives for Keith again and almost manages to shove Keith face-first into the rainbow wool. “Until you put this hat on, I refuse to zip my coat back up. My cold will be on your hands.” 

“Shiro!” Keith protests, laughing louder still as he darts away, ducking behind the tree to get away from his unfathomable reach. This is the stupidest thing he can remember doing for a while. 

He peeks around the tree just in time to spot Shiro creeping around the other side. He barks a laugh, pivoting away. Shiro laughs, too, and chases after him.

Their stupid tussle ends when Keith manages to get his hands on Shiro’s coat, forcing the zipper back up again at the same time that Shiro manages to slide the beanie over Keith’s ears. Keith pouts as he rights Shiro’s coat for him, feeling the perfect slide of Shiro’s fingertips against the shell of his ears, tucking away his hair as he adjusts his hat. He has no right to blush so much over such a simple touch.

He blinks as he looks back up at Shiro to find Shiro looking back again, his smile soft, almost reverent. “There,” Shiro says. “Now I feel better.” 

“I look stupid in rainbow.”

“Excuse you,” Shiro says with a snort. “You look beautiful.” 

Keith ducks his head, laughing like it’s a joke and feeling his entire face turn red. “My hair’s a weird length for beanies. I look bald.” 

“You look nice,” Shiro insists, folding up the brim of the hat and adjusting it one final time before letting go of Keith. Keith’s fingers linger on Shiro’s zipper, unwilling to step back so soon. 

“Thanks,” Keith mumbles. 

-

When Keith gets back to his trailer that night, he unwraps the things Shiro sent home with him. There’s the candle, as promised, but a few lavender lemon cookies and a satchel with dried lavender radiating the gentle scent. There’s a bar of soap, too, pressed into a mold to give it shape. It’s stamped with a swan. 

Keith smiles at it and feels ridiculous for it, moony and serene. He texts Shiro to tease him and gets only laughing emoji back, and a series of hearts. 

Keith doesn’t let himself read into it.


	2. Chapter 2

After that day, he sees Shiro more often than not at the nature reserve. Keith sees him taking his walks, strolling around the lake as the sun rises, smiling and waving at Keith. He doesn’t always stop to talk with Keith for too long— despite the overwintering for the lavender, he does still have responsibilities that bring him back to his farm— but he always says hello when they see each other. It’s just as well: Keith also has work to do and while seeing Shiro is pleasant, it’s better if they aren’t distracted talking with each other. Swans don’t record, study, and analyze their own behavior, after all. 

It’s still nice when Shiro does say hello to him. Most days when Keith arrives at the lake, he looks first to see if Shiro is along the shoreline before he thinks to find the swans. It feels so easily incorporated into his day— observe the swans and wait for Shiro. 

It doesn’t matter how often Keith reminds himself not to pine for Shiro— that those days are gone— Keith knows that he does instinctively. He’s always looking for and waiting for Shiro, it seems. 

Keith’s day is better when Shiro is there. 

Keith is used to lonely work— doing his research and conservation tends to be an isolation endeavor. He’s used to liking birds more than people. 

That was never going to be the case with Shiro. 

“You have a hat today,” Shiro says with a wide grin one morning, his breath a misty cloud around him. His nose is a ruddy pink from the chill in the air, his smile charming and sweet. Sometimes, it’s painful to look at him directly. 

Keith tugs the floppy hat down to cover his ears, glancing away. He’s not sure why he feels so shy about Shiro noticing. 

“Yeah. Managed to find one.”

“I’m glad,” Shiro says. “You look warmer already.”

Keith is still wearing his ratty old coat and a scarf that’s more aesthetic than practical, he’s come to realize, but it’s better than nothing. He shrugs one shoulder. 

“You really should look into a winter coat, Keith,” Shiro says. “A proper one.” 

Keith waves his hand dismissively. “I’ll get to it.” 

Other times, Shiro arrives with the remnants of breakfast that he’ll share with Keith— a few slices of banana bread or half of a poppy seed muffin. Keith, whose tendency is to forget to eat until he gets hungry at three, appreciates the mid-morning snacks. He scarfs them down with perhaps a bit too much vigor— Shiro is a good baker. Eventually, Shiro starts bringing multiple muffins, like he’s clued into Keith’s hunger. Maybe he has. He’s always been observant.

Keith hates to think about what else he might have observed about him. 

Mostly, it’s just a nice way to pass the cold days. 

Today, though, is a nasty winter day— the kind that finds him biting cold, infiltrating all the layers he piles on. His toes feel like ice even beneath all the blankets he’s stacked on the bed in his trailer. 

When he slogs his way to the lake, the wind is far too cold, chilly enough that it feels like slaps across his cheeks as he moves. He hunches into himself, shivering. There’s a new layer of ice forming on the edges of the lake, not enough to freeze the entire thing, but even the mud on the ground is icicled, crunching beneath Keith’s boots.

Keith really wishes he didn’t have the fingerless gloves today. 

The clouds roil above him, threatening to spill. It would be just his luck if he had to face the day with freezing rain. He’s looking at a miserable few hours documenting changes in plumage and recording nest size, and he’s moody enough that he doesn’t think to look around to see if Shiro’s walking along the path. It’s an absurd thought that he’d even be here— it’s dark, gloomy, and cold as shit. 

“Keith!” 

So of course Shiro would be coming to check up on him. 

“What are you doing here?” Keith calls to him, crossing his arms as he hunches his shoulders up towards his ears, desperate to keep some body heat in. “It’s cold as hell out here.” 

“Exactly,” Shiro says as he trots up towards Keith. “And it’s going to rain. I wasn’t sure if you had an umbrella.” 

“I have a hood,” Keith says. 

Shiro snorts. “I mean, really with this wind, a hood and an umbrella aren’t going to do you much good either way. And I know how bad your coat is.”

“My coat isn’t that bad,” Keith protests.

“I can see you shivering from over here,” Shiro says as he marches the rest of the way up the embankment and onto the old fishing pier, falling into step next to Keith. The old wood rattles with each step. The plus side is that Shiro makes for a pretty good wind-blocker as he gets closer, standing between the wind and Keith. 

“Hi,” Keith mumbles as he presses up against Shiro’s chest, the immediacy and intimacy of the gesture nearly taking even Keith by surprise. 

He can feel the brief moment when Shiro tenses up. Before Keith can pull away again, though, Shiro relaxes. He loops his arms around Keith, tugging him in close and cradling him. He radiates warmth, as always, like a big furnace. It makes Keith breathe out, the tension leeching away from him as he sinks against Shiro. 

“You don’t have to stay,” Keith says, shivering in Shiro’s arms. He shivers harder when Shiro starts rubbing his back, his hands big and heavy against his body. Keith clears his throat. “Especially if it starts raining.”

“If it starts raining, then I’m _definitely_ staying.” Keith can hear the rumble of Shiro’s chest as he speaks and it’s infinitely comforting. More than it should be. Shiro sighs. “I don’t want to leave you out here to be miserable.” 

Keith shakes his head, his nose brushing against the warm wool of Shiro’s scarf. He breathes in, the gentle scent of lavender simply comforting. “When’d you get so damn chivalrous?” 

Shiro shrugs, still rubbing his hands down Keith’s back. Keith can barely feel it through his coat, but the gesture is a reassuring, centering one. He wants Shiro to just keep touching him— but that’s hardly a new desire. He really has no right feeling so much longing for Shiro, even now. He should know better. 

“Born that way, I guess,” Shiro says and Keith can hear the grin in his voice even without looking up to confirm it. Quieter, Shiro adds, “Someone has to look out for you.”

“I look out for myself,” Keith protests, although his voice sounds a little quivery, laced with pleasure at the thought of Shiro worrying about him. Caring about him. 

“You don’t always have to do it alone, though.” 

There’s something melancholy in the tone. Keith squeezes his eyes shut, unsure how to respond to something so heartfelt and earnest. He doesn’t know what to do or say anymore when it comes to Shiro. 

He belatedly loops his arms around Shiro, squeezing him back. He feels more than hears the huff of Shiro’s breath, a quiet little chuckle that makes Keith feel warm from the inside out. 

“By the way,” Shiro says as he shoves one hand into his pocket. “I brought you some pumpkin bread for breakfast.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Keith murmurs even as he accepts the food. It means pulling away from Shiro a bit, which he regrets, but the bread smells fragrant and delicious. Keith draws away and unwraps the napkin slowly to get at the moist, spiced bread within. The first bite is blissful and he hums around his mouthful. 

Shiro’s smile is overly pleased, his eyes bright even in the dreary winter morning. “Good?” 

“Always,” Keith says, licking his lips free of crumbs. “Almost good enough to make me forget how fucking cold it is out here.”

It earns a laugh from Shiro, which was Keith’s hope, and that’s more warming than any spiced bread. Shiro keeps one arm wrapped securely around Keith’s shoulders, even as they both turn to observe the swans in the distance, paddling through the water without a care. 

Keith can barely focus on them. He can only focus on how easily Shiro’s arm wraps around him, holding there like it’s simple, his hand swiping gently up and down Keith’s bicep, like he’s still trying to rub some warmth into him. Keith burrows into Shiro’s side, sticking close. It feels easy, natural. Shiro doesn’t draw away, hardly feeling bothered by the close proximity. It, in turn, gives Keith confidence to stay tucked up against him. 

“You’re warm,” Keith mumbles around a bite of pumpkin bread. His cheeks feel warm but he hopes Shiro will attribute it to the cold air, if he even notices. 

“Good,” Shiro says pleasantly. 

They stand like that for a long moment. Keith knows he has to actually do work and he’ll need to step away soon, but for now it’s pleasant to just stand here with Shiro. Shiro seems equally content, and he lets out the softest breath when Keith finally untangles himself. 

Keith’s field notebook is water-resistant, so Keith’s not worried about some roiling rainclouds, ducking down to write out his shorthand notes as he observes the swans. He and Shiro walk towards the opposite end of the lake together, pausing as Keith records locations of shed feathers. Everything is same as usual, nothing new to report, steady as she goes. Keith kind of wants to curse the damn swans for refusing to fly south for the winter. Keith could be somewhere warm right now observing them instead.

Of course, it’s just as likely that without their unique qualities, Keith wouldn’t be studying Altean Swans at all. Maybe he should have gone with flamingos or ʻamakihi. 

And then again, if he were studying any other bird, working at any other nature reserve, employed by any other conservation group, he wouldn’t be here with Shiro. Shiro bounces along the path as Keith works, doing little jumps to get his blood pumping and to keep himself warm. It’s stupidly endearing, like he’s all jittery, nervous energy. Keith wants to observe _him_ , really.

Keith keeps expecting Shiro to head back to his farm, as he usually does as the morning ticks away, but he seems determined to keep Keith company just as he promised. It’s a small thing, but it makes Keith feel flushed with warmth. 

By early afternoon, the clouds above them have gone so dark that it feels like dusk. The first drop of rain is fat and chilling as it lands on Keith’s nose. The first wave of droplets scatter across the lake, shattering the glassy stillness and leaving the air is thick with the smell of petrichor and chilly-winter. 

Once it starts raining, it really starts raining. It’s not just rain, it’s freezing rain— that horrible mix of sleet and water, splashing across Keith’s shoulders and the top of his head and soaking him instantly, leaving him robbed of all temporary warmth he might have stolen from Shiro. 

The wind blows, slamming his face with rainwater. There’s no hiding from it, either— the wind rips off Keith’s hood and plasters him with ice water before he can even breathe. 

“Keith,” Shiro says, looking equally as washed out by the cold rain. “You’re not serious about staying out here, right?”

“The swans—” 

“You told me you only need to be out here for a few set hours,” Shiro says, having to raise his voice over the blowing of the wind. It whips all around them, threatening to steal away Shiro’s hat. He squints, looking unhappy and _cold._

“It’ll pass,” Keith says, although the clouds above do seem rather infinite, roiling and twisting through the heavy winds. The rain plasters downward relentlessly. Maybe he really should have gotten an umbrella while in town. Or a better raincoat. 

He’s already shivering. He knows it’s only a matter of time before Shiro notices. 

Shiro catches his hand, all of Keith’s fingers a bright red from the chill. Curse his damn fingerless gloves. 

Shiro frowns at him, his silver hair plastered against his forehead, beads of water standing out against his heavy, water-resistant coat. “Come back to the farmhouse with me, at least until this weather passes. You can dry off, get warm. I’ll make tea.”

“Lavender tea?” Keith teases.

Shiro wrinkles his nose. “You joke, but I literally do have lavender teas.” 

“You going to force me to take a soothing bath with your lavender bath salts, too?” Keith asks, unsure why he’s pressing. Maybe if he teases enough, it’ll keep Shiro from looking quite so worried and serious. But that’s always been Shiro’s way, hasn’t it? 

The dumb joke is worth it just to see Shiro’s face heat up with a blush. “Oh— uh. If you want?”

The response is, of course, serious if perplexed. It makes Keith’s entire face burn bright red. 

“I was joking!” 

Keith can’t deny he feels miserable standing out here, of course. The rain is relentless, the air is cold, and Keith isn’t dressed for this weather. He has his winter coat, but he’s also wearing jeans. They’re currently soaked through, plastered to his thighs. His entire body feels chilled. He’s shivering and there’s no hiding it from Shiro. 

He watches Shiro’s eyes sweep over him, assessing, and the way his brows furrow in concern. “Keith,” Shiro says. “Please come back to the farm with me. I promise to give you all the lavender teas and soaps you want. But… please.” 

There’s something soft in this tone but something inside Keith still wants to resist it. He feels his shoulders sag. 

“Please,” Shiro says again.

Keith has to look away, something tender and quivering in his gut at the way Shiro looks at him now, the way he speaks to him so softly. “You— you don’t need to keep bribing me to go places with you.”

“Don’t I?” 

Keith stares at the swans, unsure what it is within him that insists against Shiro’s kindness. Shiro has always been kind to him— a good friend. A friend. It’s Keith’s own silly, traitorous heart that’s making it feel more. He reminds himself not to read into it too deeply. 

Keith clears his throat and shrugs his shoulders. “You don’t. Not really.” 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re pretty stubborn, Keith?” Shiro asks. 

“You have. All the time.” 

Shiro sighs. 

The swans will be fine, Keith reminds himself. They’ve been through far worse and he’s familiar enough with their behavior by now to know cold weather doesn’t disrupt their nesting routine. 

Keith bites his lip. “… Well, if you have more of this pumpkin bread back at your house, I won’t say no to going. I guess.” 

Shiro’s relief is palpable. It blooms across his face, his eyes brightening. “I have _so_ much pumpkin bread,” Shiro says. “Come on, Keith. Come warm up.” 

Keith would appreciate being dry and Shiro’s farmhouse is certainly closer than the trailer. 

As the rain comes down harder and the wind blows more desperately, Keith follows Shiro back through his makeshift path to the end of his lavender fields. The world feels far too dark for early afternoon, the clouds brutal in their darkness, the sheets of rain nearly obscuring all sight. They hurry across the fields, the wind hitting them with onslaughts of rain. 

Keith nearly trips over his own feet when Shiro grasps Keith’s hand, pulling him in closer as they run together through the fields. Keith reminds himself not to read into the touch. 

It’s hardly the gentle sort of springtime rain, misty and sweet. The rain is more sleet now, threatening hail, and the fat drops hit hard against Keith’s exposed skin, stinging in their brutality. Keith clings tight to Shiro’s hand, his fingers ice cold in the exposed air. He can’t even really appreciate being so close to Shiro. 

Absurdly, what Keith notices most about Shiro’s farmhouse as they approach it are the hummingbird feeders on the porch. They line along the overhang, swinging on their hooks. There’s the pleasant buzz of a hummingbird’s wings as it flickers away from them, darting out into the gloomy, darkening sky. Keith’s almost afraid of the poor thing getting hit by the water and sent toppling to the ground. 

Shiro shoulders the front door open and slips inside, tugging Keith along. Instantly, Keith is bombarded by the scent of lavender and the warmth of a sheltered place. 

“Hold on,” Shiro says, kicking off his boots before darting into the house. He flips on a few lights in his wake, illuminating the front room as he goes in search of towels. Keith stands in the foyer dripping, unwilling to enter in further and get anything wet.

He does shrug out of his useless coat and plucks off his soaked hat. He stands there, damp and unhappy, waiting for Shiro to return.

Shiro comes back relatively quickly, carrying two thick, fluffy towels. He holds one out to Keith, who drops his waterlogged outerwear in gratitude, reaching for the towel and scrubbing it over his face and hair, drying off as quickly and succinctly as possible. 

“Thanks,” Keith murmurs as he rubs the towel over his ears, trying to bring back some feeling beyond chill. 

“Go ahead and pull off your clothes,” Shiro says. “I’ll grab you something dry— I.” He stops, frowning. “I’m pretty sure I can find something that will fit you.”

Keith blushes all the way up to his ears. “Um. Sure. I don’t— I don’t want to bring any water in.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Shiro says. “This place is already pretty beat up. The last owners had like four sheepdogs that just scuffed up the floors like _crazy._ Come in. It’s warmer away from the door. Here—” 

He ducks forward, scooping up Keith’s coat to hang it on one of the hooks on the wall, then grabs Keith’s hat to hang it on a separate hook to dry. Shiro jerks his head towards the interior of the house, taking a step and waiting for Keith to follow. It’s a silent invitation and now that he’s here, it’s not one Keith’s about to refuse. 

Shivering, Keith unties his boots and slips out of them, following after Shiro. It’s a modestly sized farmhouse, with its front rooms and a rickety staircase leading upstairs. Keith spies the kitchen in the back, and what should be a dining room seems to be Shiro’s workstation for assembling his many wares. 

“You’ve been busy,” Keith says as he spies the soap molds and candle wicks on the far side of the table.

Shiro glances over. “Not much else to do in the winter. Plus, my PT says it’s good for me to do small tasks like that. Keeping wicks upright is a pain in the ass, by the way.” 

He laughs and Keith manages a faint smile, trailing him as Shiro heads up the stairs. The house shakes with the wind as they move up the stairs.

“Will Red and Black be okay in all this?” Shiro asks, the stairs creaking beneath him and the rain slamming against the rattling windowpanes. The entire house sounds like it’s about to shake apart under the onslaught of the weather. 

“Oh yeah,” Keith says. “They’re resilient birds. They’ll get all tucked up in each other and wait for it to blow over.” When Keith glances out a window, there’s more snow mixed in with the sleet. “If anything, it’ll be interesting to see how they respond to this.”

“The whole ‘don’t fly south’ thing, right?” 

Keith nods, warmed to think that Shiro remembers the little things Keith told him about. He turns away from the window, letting Shiro lead the way down the hallway to his bedroom. Shiro cracks the door open and ushers Keith inside. His hand finds the small of Keith’s back again, there and gone again, but leaving Keith shivering. 

Shiro opens up an old wardrobe tucked into the corner, plucking down a massive cable knit sweater he then holds out to Keith. He waits for Keith to take it before squatting down to pluck open one of the drawers, digging around for some pants. Keith tries not to stare at the perfect flex of his thighs as he squats like that. 

Shiro finds what must be his smallest pair of joggers, holding them out to Keith. They still look massive and they’ll likely swim on Keith. 

“It’ll be weird if I offer underwear, huh?” Shiro asks.

“Um,” Keith squeaks. “I’ll just, uh—” 

There’s no reasonable way to end that sentence so he aborts mission, turning to cross to the other side of the room with the clothes. They feel heavy with fabric, warm in a way that Keith craves. 

He turns around to thank Shiro but it’s a mistake— his eyes nearly bug out of his skull when he catches Shiro tugging his shirt off over his head.

His hair is wet from the rain, clinging to the back of his neck, but his back is golden and muscular, and Keith is _staring._ He knew Shiro was muscular, but he isn’t prepared to see him shirtless. It’s even worse when Shiro turns around and spots Keith staring. His chest is unspeakable, his pecs pronounced and his abs for days. He looks like a perfect winter god or something. 

Keith drops the sweater and joggers and then scrambles to pick them up, blushing and ducking his head. His staring is way, way too obvious. 

Snow-rain pelts against the windows, a rapid-fire drumming sound that seems in line with the beat of Keith’s heart. 

“Sorry,” Keith says to the ground, daring to peek up at Shiro again. His eyes sweep over Shiro’s chest again betrayingly. 

“No, sorry,” Shiro says, seemingly undisturbed that Keith was just staring right at his nipples. He gestures behind Keith. “You can use the bathroom through there, if you want.”

“I’m not— ugh,” Keith grumbles, turning to glance at the door. He’s an adult. He’s capable of dressing in front of other men without dying on the spot. He’s capable of dressing in front of _Shiro_ without dying on the spot. His eyes flicker back towards Shiro and the perfect vee at his hips.

Keith jerks his head away and breathes out sharply through his nose, yanking off his shirt. His hair is a mess around him, and he blushes all the way up to his ears, but doesn’t let himself linger on it. He’s an adult and he can act like a mature adult. Even as he thinks it, he can’t help but glance back over towards Shiro just in time to see Shiro’s gaze flicker away. 

Shiro clears his throat. Keith finds his eyes tracing the perfect lines of his back and then, without warning, Shiro strips off his pants. It means Keith gets an eyeful of his ass covered in very, very clingy briefs. And that’s its own type of distracting.

“What kind of pattern is that?” Keith’s traitorous mouth asks, because of course Shiro’s wearing patterned underwear and of course Keith has to make it known that he was looking enough to notice.

Shiro glances back at him over his shoulder, red dusting the tops of his cheeks. “Peaches.” 

“Of course,” Keith says. It somehow feels appropriate.

Of course Shiro is wearing underwear covered in peaches. And now Shiro knows Keith was looking. 

Keith jerks his head away, taking a deep, steadying breath to try to prevent himself from having a stupid crisis over undressing. The room smells like lavender and Shiro is standing right there and all Keith wants to do is _stare._

He breathes out before stripping off his own jeans. They’re clingy on the best of days, but it’s worse with the rain. There’s nothing graceful or sexy about the way Keith has to wriggle out of them, shimmying his hips and nearly taking his underwear down along with them. 

Curiosity gets the better of him though, and Keith glances over his shoulder, worried he’s just mooned Shiro. He’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed that Shiro’s already turned away, his ears bright red and stark against the fluffy white of his hair. 

Keith watches Shiro slip on a pair of leggings that cling sinfully to his thighs and calves. He looks like a goddamn god, even when swept up in a winter rain. Keith’s throat clicks as he swallows, staring blatantly now that Shiro’s looked away. 

Keith takes another steadying breath before he turns and shoves his legs into the borrowed joggers. He swims in them, even at their relatively small size in comparison to Shiro’s legs. The sweater threatens to swallow him whole when he slips into it, too. Both items are soft and well-worn, and some of the bone-deep cold seeps away as Keith sighs, shoulders relaxing. The clothes smell like Shiro. 

He turns back towards Shiro, smiling gratefully, just in time to watch him tug on a white thermal. Keith mourns the absence of those perfect abs as they slip hidden behind the shirt fabric. 

But the fully dressed picture is nice, too. He’s so used to just seeing Shiro in a heavy coat that it’s nice to just appreciate him like this— his hair fluffy and silver, his white thermal, his clingy leggings, his bare feet. He looks beautiful and comfortable and so, so unspeakably handsome. 

“You look warmer already,” Keith says, his voice sounding croaky. 

Shiro’s mouth flickers with a smile. “You too.” 

“Socks?” Keith asks, wriggling his toes.

“Good idea,” Shiro says and plucks up two pairs. He tosses one to Keith. Keith isn’t sure if it’s weird to borrow socks, but his toes are so damn cold that he hardly cares, hopping from one foot to the next to get them on with minimal effort.

“There,” Keith says triumphantly once he’s done.

“Now you look downright cozy,” Shiro says with a smile. 

“Thanks.” 

“Here,” Shiro says, holding his hands out to him. “Let’s get your stuff washed and dried.” 

Keith follows Shiro through the house once more. The immediate need for dry clothes met, Shiro gives Keith a haphazard tour— the top floor made up mostly of Shiro’s room and bathroom, and a spare room for storage. The downstairs is the front room, the side room, the kitchen, and the bathroom.

“I thought farmhouses were supposed to be sprawling,” Keith says.

“Probably. But it’s a good size for the size of the farm. And just me. My mom’s still pretty mad I don’t have a guest room, though.” He shrugs. “I plan to turn that storage room into one eventually, but for now it’s more practical to store my jams in there.”

“Let me guess… Raspberry lavender jam?” 

“Blackberry, actually. But I have plans to get raspberry, too.” 

Keith hums. The farmhouse is cozy, but there’s still something sad in it. Keith looks at the rooms as they pass and can only think of Shiro here alone, working in the fields or making his candles. He looks at Shiro and wonders if he’s been lonely, if that might be the reason he needs to walk around the lake each day to clear his head. 

Keith wonders if he’s projecting. 

Instead of saying any of that, though, he says instead: “So… I recall you promised me tea?” 

“Tea!” Shiro agrees, hurrying back into the kitchen. He seems eager to provide. 

Keith follows behind, lingering in the doorway as Shiro fills a kettle and puts it on to boil. Keith settles in for the moment, listening to the sound of the rain-snow outside, the howling of the wind, and the hum of the gas stove as it heats the kettle. 

There’s something familiar and domestic watching Shiro putz around his kitchen. It feels like looking into a future that could have been but never was. It reminds him, too, of so many days spent in the kitchens of their childhood homes, waiting for snacks and meals. Keith watches Shiro’s back as he moves, his hands fiddling, his socked feet shuffling along the floor, and Keith thinks again of Shiro alone in this farmhouse. Keith _aches._

It feels so much like mourning again— like realizing something was lost only in its afterimage, like watching birds fly away from their nest. 

“This feels like old times, huh?” Shiro asks, his back still to Keith as he busies himself with the tea, spooning generous portions into the steeping cups. 

Keith blinks, clearing his vision. “What do you mean?”

“Sleepovers!” Shiro says with a laugh, glancing back at Keith over his shoulder. “Just being lazy for a day playing video games and stargazing.” 

“Not sure we can do much of either right now,” Keith says. He glances out the window, grateful for the chance to school his expression back into something more neutral. “I’ll need to do my afternoon check-in in a few hours, I think.”

“You can’t be serious about heading back out there.” Shiro sounds like he’s ready to scold. He turns back towards Keith fully, his expression pinched. He probably noticed Keith’s melancholy. “You’ll slip on ice and crack your head open.”

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, big guy?” Keith teases and watches Shiro blush. 

“Come on, Keith. I’m serious.” 

“It’ll be good for me to get some observations about how the swans react to weather like this,” Keith says. 

He had sent his latest report just yesterday to the NW Wildlife Trust. Likely, that gives him some leeway with extenuating circumstances such as ease of travel and safety. As soon as he admits as much aloud, he knows Shiro’s won the battle— there’s no way Shiro’s going to let him go back out into the storm now. 

“Settle in, Keith,” Shiro says, smiling with just a touch of smugness to the look. “We can build a fire upstairs. Make it nice and cozy until it passes.” 

Keith hums, listening to the kettle boil and watching Shiro pour the steaming water over the leaves. He takes the mug Shiro offers him and together, they trail back upstairs. There’s a little fireplace on the far wall of Shiro’s bedroom, and Keith watches Shiro build up a modest fire and light it with some stray newspaper he keeps in a little basket near the grate. 

That strange domesticity falls over Keith again. He crosses his arms, eager for warmth, and lingers at Shiro’s side. The fire roars to life, charming in its own way. It’s dark enough outside that the flickering of the firelight is pleasant, even with the lamps on in the room. It’ll be dark in a couple hours, at least, with the winter sunset and the massive clouds blocking most of the light. 

“Have a seat,” Shiro says as the fire builds, patting the spot on a little rug before the fire. “You’ll get warmer this way.” 

Keith watches Shiro settle, crossing his legs and making himself comfortable. He looks picture-perfect sitting on an old, worn rug, glowing in the firelight. 

Shiro reaches up, touching Keith’s hand and tugging once on the long, folded sleeve of the sweater. Shiro’s smile grows as Keith huffs a breath, letting Shiro tug him down to the floor. 

The rain outside seems to be turning to snow instead, now that the temperature continues to drop. Keith knows from experience how awful a combination of freezing rain and snow can be for driving. He’s not sure if it’ll be an easy walk back to his truck, come evening. But despite his protests, he’s in no rush to leave. 

Shiro makes for pleasant company and he seems pleased that Keith is staying. 

Keith sips his tea, sighing out pleasantly. Despite Shiro’s teasing, the tea isn’t lavender, but a deep, rich black tea. Keith inhales slowly, eyes shut, his smile curling up. Keith loves black tea. Of course Shiro remembers that.

“This does feel like the old days,” Keith says quietly. He can hear the thread of hope woven deep through his words and he wonders if he should be embarrassed by it.

Shiro has always been so kind to him. It’s hard not to hope. 

“I know what will make it feel like it even more,” Shiro says, smiling as he sets down his mug. He stands, retreating to a chest at the foot of his bed, tugging the lid up and pulling out an old blanket. It’s one Keith remembers well from many, many weekend sleepovers at Shiro’s house, an old quilt his great grandmother made for him as a child.

It’s worn with age, the patches frayed and faded in their color. But Keith remembers how pleasantly heavy and comfortable it’d been, and how easily Shiro offered it to him when he was cold, wrapping him up to keep him warm through the night.

“Wow,” Keith says as Shiro drapes it around his shoulders and bundles him up. “I can’t believe you still have that.”

“If we want to make it just a big trip down memory lane…” Shiro says, his smile turning sly. “I’m pretty sure I can dig around for a pack of Uno cards.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Keith gasps, startled into laughter. “I refuse to fight with you while stealing your blanket and wearing your clothes.” 

Shiro throws his head back to laugh. It’s a forceful laugh, one that rocks him full-bodied. Shiro leans back on his hands, feet tucked up as close to the fire as he dares without getting burned by the protective grate. 

“No Uno, got it.” Shiro chuckles. “I’m not sure if I even have those cursed cards in my house, anyway. Maybe some other board games.”

“I’m fine like this,” Keith says, sipping his tea. He wonders if he’s glowing. He kind of feels like he is. “I’m… it’s nice to be here with you.” 

Shiro smiles at him, looking indulgent and warm in the firelight. So, so unbearably handsome. It nearly steals Keith’s breath entirely. 

“Me too, Keith.” 

They linger by the fire. Keith alternates between just watching the flames and glancing over at Shiro. He looks otherworldly, the fire caressing his face and softening him in the near-darkness. Keith studies the slope of his nose, the cut of his jaw, his handsome profile as he regards the fire. 

At one point, Shiro’s eye flickers towards him, glancing at him and then away. He sees Keith staring, but makes no move to point it out or to look away. So Keith just looks at him, studying him the way he would the birds, memorizing the gestures and behaviors to record later in his field notes. 

Keith has gotten better at being still. At being patient. It was something he learned from Shiro long ago. 

_You’re so handsome,_ Keith wants to say but can’t quite manage it. It feels like too much. He doesn’t want to be wrong. 

The fire crackles, flickering as it burns through the wood on the grate. The silence feels strangely comfortable, punctuated by the pop and hiss of the flames and their sips of tea. After about half an hour, Shiro double-checks the weather report to see the grand scope of the storm, now fully snow now— covering the ground outside in a blanket of white.

“You’re welcome to stay the night,” Shiro says, looking out the window. “I don’t think it’s good if you drive in this.”

Keith doesn’t know snow well enough to decide if it’s more dangerous to try driving right now or later once the snow settles. Regardless, he doubts he’s getting out of here any time soon. And if he’s honest, he isn’t eager to leave Shiro all alone. 

He sighs, accepting his fate. “I don’t want to cause trouble.”

“You’re never trouble,” Shiro says easily, his response earnest and immediate. He flips through his phone. “Things should be clear by tomorrow, so it won’t put you off work too much, hopefully.” 

Keith nods, then slips closer towards Shiro, like the liquid slide of a murmuration of starlings. Shiro smiles, tugging playfully on the edge of his quilt. Wordlessly, Keith holds it open, shivering as the cool air from the room rushes in, but Shiro is quick to follow after, ducking up beneath the quilt with Keith.

When they were kids, the quilt could envelop them both with leftover room. As adults, it doesn’t cover them both fully, but it’s still comfortable enough, especially when Shiro mimics the gesture from the lake, his arm wrapped securely around Keith and keeping him tucked up into his side. They curl into one another, barely any space between them. 

Sitting like this with Shiro reminds Keith of another time, that night sitting on top of a picnic bench and staring up at the stars. It’d been a warm early summer night, prom night, although they were both too young to have gone to that. They spent the night together, both of them crying periodically knowing Keith would be leaving the next day.

Keith remembers tucking up to Shiro’s side just like this and turning to him, remembers murmuring, _I like you. I mean… I really, really like you. I wish I didn’t have to go._

He’d been working himself up to saying it the entire week, wanting to finally confess it to Shiro before he left. Wanting, hoping— daring to hope, to trust Shiro with the truth of it. 

He remembers Shiro making a sound like he was about to weep, remembers him cupping Keith’s face to tilt it up and kiss him. It’d been off-center and an objectively bad kiss, too dramatic and like the way they’d seen it in the movies and thought all kisses needed to be. But it’d still made Keith sob. It’d been everything he’d hoped for, his heart cracking open in his chest. 

_I’ll write you every day,_ Shiro had promised then, forehead pressed to Keith’s, still cupping his cheeks. _I’ll write you so often, you’ll get sick of me._

Shiro was always a romantic like that, dramatic and over-the-top with his affection both as a friend and as an— almost. 

Keith had wanted to kiss him more, but he was too busy crying. Shiro had walked him home and hugged him for what felt like hours, neither of them wanting to say goodbye. Neither of them wanting to let go. Sometimes Shiro’s strength could fail him during a particular flare-up of his illness, but he hadn’t wavered as he held Keith. He clung to him as tightly as he could. 

Eventually, Keith’s dad had opened the front door to gently remind them of the early day tomorrow, then leaving again to give them their privacy. Keith had cried harder and it’d been enough to make Shiro crack, too, crying into Keith’s shoulder and clinging tight. It was the drama of teenagers and the end of the world, but Keith felt it acutely— the severing of a friendship with his best friend, his only friend, and the person he loved most in the entire universe. 

Keith’s interrupted from such morbid thoughts when the lights flicker above them and then shut off entirely, bathing the room in darkness. Keith hadn’t realized so much time had passed. A quick glance at his phone reveals it’s well after four. 

Shiro hurries downstairs to check the circuit-breaker, but even once he flips them back, the lights don’t return. Keith huddles under the quilt, watching Shiro check different light switches along the second floor. Still nothing. 

“Power outage?” Keith asks. 

“The wind’s blowing hard,” Shiro says thoughtfully, hands on his hips. “I guess it could have knocked a tree down on one of the roads.” 

They return to Shiro’s room and the light of the fire. They both scroll through their phones, the internet moving slow without the wifi connection. Eventually, Shiro confirms it with the power company’s webpage— multiple downed trees and hundreds of customers without power.

“With this snow, I think we’re without power for a while,” Shiro says with a sigh. “Good thing the stove is gas rather than electric.” He turns to Keith with an apologetic smile. “And a good thing I have plenty of pumpkin bread to give you to make you feel less angry about getting dragged up here in the first place.” 

Keith shakes his head. “I don’t mind. Really,” he insists when Shiro makes a sound. “If you’re out of power, my trailer probably is, too. I don’t want to think about getting warm there tonight.”

“You’ll be plenty warm here, I promise,” Shiro says. “I’ll keep you warm.” 

Keith feels his cheeks blaze pink as he looks away, refusing to listen for any insinuation. “Let’s grab some candles or flashlights.” 

They scrounge through the house together. Shiro finds some flashlights and candles— all non-scented rather than the lavender ones— lighting them along the fireplace mantle. It’s more for ambiance than anything else, what with the fire a source of heat and light, but it feels adventurous. 

Keith can picture how they would have been— ages eight and ten— sleeping over at one another’s houses and building forts to stave off the chill. The thrill of the lack of power and snow would outweigh any adult concerns like food or heat, left to their parents to worry while they romped around the house. 

“So,” Shiro says, chuckling. “How about that Uno game?” 

-

They don’t play Uno, but Shiro does fish out some playing cards and they stroll through their arsenal of two-player games until they both get bored with it. Shiro pauses occasionally to build up the fire and to make Keith more tea. He comes back with plenty of pumpkin bread and a few other shelf-stable snacks, trying to minimize how often he opens the fridge.

“You really should get a back-up generator,” Keith scolds. “You run a business, Shiro.”

“I know, I know,” Shiro says, holding up his hands in surrender and hanging his head in dramatic defeat. “On my to-do list, I swear.” 

The conversation runs smoothly between them, stupid talk and the skirting of childhood memories. It’s easy to talk with Shiro, always has been, but somehow sitting near a fire with him, in the perfect dark of candlelight, it’s easier to talk about anything without fear of saying the wrong thing. 

“Oh shit, your laundry!” Shiro gasps at one point, but there’s no helping it— without electricity, there’s no hope of drying the clothes quickly. Keith follows Shiro to the washer, pulling out his damp clothes and helping Shiro to hang them across the shower rod in the bathroom. As soon as they’re finished, they scurry back to the warmth of Shiro’s bedroom.

By the time it’s really, truly dark, and the outside world is dampened with the freshly fallen snow, Keith starts yawning. He expects he’ll take his quilt and tuck into the armchair in the corner, or curl up on the floor in front of the fire, but Shiro scoffs at the mere suggestion of it.

“Keith, my bed’s big enough for us both,” he says. “Don’t try to argue. I’m not letting you sleep on the damn floor.” 

Keith wants to protest, but there’s no good reason why he should— and truthfully, he’s still chilled enough that Shiro’s bed does look rather inviting. They pile as many blankets as they can find onto the bed in preparation for the coming cold. 

“Once the fire dies down, it’s going to get very, very cold in here,” Shiro says. “Sorry in advance.” Keith nods, shivering as he removes the quilt to drape on top of the whole pile. His hands touch a loose thread on it and he feels that same pluck of nostalgia within him, seeing these many reminders of their childhood in this new context.

He looks at Shiro, handsome and quiet in the firelight. His eyes flicker with the light but stay steady on Keith. 

Shiro turns, tugging down the blankets to make space for Keith to hop in. Keith needs no prompting to get under the covers, huddling beneath the blankets and watching Shiro hurry to the other side of the bed and climb in after him. Keith feels the mattress dip, shivering at the brief hush of cold that follows in with Shiro. 

“There,” Shiro says quietly, like raising his voice might shatter the warmth in the room. “Comfy, right?”

“Downright cozy,” Keith agrees. He snuggles in against the pillow, sighing out, looking at Shiro across the bed. “Thanks, Shiro. For letting me stay.”

“Like I’d let you go out into the literal storm,” Shiro says. “You’re always welcome here, Keith.” 

Keith closes his eyes, fighting back against the soft sound it pulls from him. He doesn’t know what it is about Shiro that makes him feel this way, why he wants to analyze every word he says for its secret meaning. The hope twirls in his gut and it takes everything he has not to feel too much at once. 

They lapse into a silence. It’s still early enough in the night that Keith doesn’t feel quite sleepy yet, despite his yawns, but there’s not much else to do when the power is out and it’s cold in the rest of the house. It’s nice to lay on his side towards Shiro, watching him. 

Shiro’s hair catches the light from the fire, glowing faintly. His eyes are keen, trained only on Keith. He always looks at Keith with such intensity. 

Shiro’s lips part, his voice husky and deep. “Are you cold?” 

Keith almost thinks of denying it, but he’s not so prideful to pretend when he really is damn cold. “A little.”

Shiro wordlessly reaches for him— and it’s easy for Keith to crawl the short distance across the bed and into Shiro’s arms. He shivers at the cool slide of the sheets against his body, but Shiro is a furnace when Keith tucks up against him. 

He wraps his arms tight around Shiro, unashamed when he downright cuddles up to him. It’s what he wants and Shiro seems to sigh into him, curling around him like he might shelter him from the cold. 

It’s easy like this, to find that peace in Shiro’s arms. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend it’s more than that. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend they’ve been like this for the last ten years— that there isn’t a decade stretching out between them, with too many blanks to fill. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend this is a universe where they’ve been like this before, for years, just like they wanted to be as kids. 

He presses his face up against Shiro’s shoulder, breathing in. He really does smell like lavender and it’s an infinitely comforting scent, draping around him. He feels a bone-deep exhaustion sink away from him, leaving him trembling in Shiro’s arms. 

“Hey, Keith.” 

“Mm?”

Shiro doesn’t answer right away, quiet still. Keith tilts his chin up to look at Shiro, finding his eyes in the near-dark. Shiro looks thoughtful, his expression unreadable as he looks at Keith, his arms secure around him. 

“What is it?” Keith asks. 

“I’m just thinking,” Shiro says, brow furrowing. “This is going to sound really random, but— is it really true that there aren’t any birds that actually mate for life?” 

Keith blinks at Shiro, unsure what could have prompted such a question out of nowhere. He shakes his head, though. 

There’s no sense in looking to birds as some sort of metaphor to life or to love. There aren’t any birds that legitimately mate for life, not really. It’s all driven by the desire to reproduce, so birds will re-partner once the mate has died— it doesn’t just go away. So many birds seem like they mate for life, when they don’t. They’ll just switch partners every year. Most monogamous birds are not fully monogamous. He tells Shiro as much. 

“It’s just evolutionary instinct,” Keith concludes. “The drive to reproduce.” 

“You don’t think birds fall in love?” 

“I think animals feel emotions,” Keith says. “And birds are far smarter than people give them credit for. But if a bird’s partner dies, she’ll get a new one. She won’t stay celibate just because her partner didn’t come back to the nest.” 

“Hmmm.” Shiro picks at a loose thread in the pillowcase, his eyes flickering from it back to Keith. 

“Why do you ask?” 

“I’ve been thinking about it ever since you mentioned it before,” Shiro says. 

“I mean, some partners come back,” Keith says, unsure why he wants to lessen the blow of evolutionary predisposition. “Doesn’t mean there weren’t others, too. I just— I don’t think people should look at birds as some big love story. They’re just birds.”

“That seems almost sacrilegious for you to say, bird-nerd,” Shiro says fondly. 

Keith’s grateful to hear the tease, if only because it’s easier to interpret Shiro’s expression this way. “Like you said: I’m practical.” Keith shifts, tugging the blanket up higher to cover him better. “I like birds for what they are, not whatever weird morals people can project onto them.”

Shiro hesitates, shifting a little. “…You came back. There’s a metaphor there, isn’t there?” 

Keith puzzles at the words. He chuckles, uncertain. “Am I a bird?” 

“A falcon, maybe,” Shiro says, but Keith can’t tell if he’s joking or not. “Or a raven. A super cool bird.” 

Keith laughs louder, the mattress shaking with the force of it. The volume of his own laughter takes him by surprise. “Ah… Thanks, Shiro.” 

Keith shifts closer towards Shiro, meeting his eyes. And Shiro seems to melt, his expression far too soft. “I like hearing your laugh.”

“Ha,” Keith breathes. “Yeah. Yours too.” 

It’s good to hear Shiro laugh. To see Shiro happy. His last memory before coming home was of Shiro crying, after all. They’d both been miserable then, Keith standing on his front porch and watching Shiro walk away, crying harder than he ever has in his life. Trying desperately not to fall apart. Longing to run after Shiro and never let go. 

He wants Shiro to always be happy. He hopes, in the time they’ve been apart, that he’s been so. 

“This is… really different from that last night when we were kids,” Keith says.

He watches Shiro tense up, blinking at him. Keith feels himself mirror the body language, his shoulders tightening up. But he said it. No taking it back now. He watches Shiro still, biting the inside of his cheek, and time seems to slow between them. 

It’s just them, looking at one another. 

“Or, well… Yeah,” Keith says, looking away. “You probably don’t remember.”

Shiro gives him a funny look, like he’s stuck between laughing or crying. He sits up, just a little, his eyes blazing in the dark. “Keith,” he says softly. “ _Of course_ I remember. How could I ever forget?”

Keith isn’t sure what he expected. He also has no idea what to say. He stares, the air stilling in his lungs. 

“Oh.”

The word punches out of him, too tight and too strained. He must look ridiculous. He has no idea what his face is doing. He’s not sure if it’s better or worse for Shiro to remember— to still have a memory of that night together and yet still let the silence drag between them. 

Shiro looks at him, his eyes shiny in the dark. “Saying goodbye to you was the worst day of my life, Keith.” 

“Shiro—” He shakes his head. “You don’t— it’s fine. We were kids.” 

Keith clamps back down on his words, unsure what else to say. What is there to say, really? 

Shiro looks at him solemnly, appearing so small beneath all the blankets. “… Keith.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m sorry about us falling out of touch,” Shiro says. “After that night, I—”

“It’s fine,” Keith cuts in quickly. “We were kids, like you said before.” 

He’s not sure if he can handle hearing Shiro’s excuses, his explanations for why he never wrote to him. It’s in the past. He doesn’t need to think about it so deeply or the heartbreak that followed. He’s not sure if it’d be too pathetic, to reveal that he’s thought of it in those ten years— that he’s wondered why Shiro had to say goodbye to him like that. 

Keith fumbles, the words jerking out of him without finesse. He’s sure he must look pathetic. “It’s— it’s fine. You weren’t obligated by— just because of what I said.” 

“Keith—” 

“I know it was— I was really intense about it,” Keith says, rambling now. “You don’t have to—” 

“Wait, please,” Shiro murmurs, squeezing him tight. Keith kind of wants to cry and hates that he does. He fights back against the stinging at the backs of his eyes. Shiro bites his lip. “I, uh. I have something to show you. Been meaning to tell you it, but— I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just make it weird.”

Keith tips back to frown at him, pulling himself from Shiro’s arms. He sits up in his bed, letting Shiro sit up in front of him. It knocks their many blankets askew, inviting the chill of the night air. But Keith’s already trembling, adrenaline and uncertain slamming through him. 

Shiro hesitates, unmoving. Keith frowns at him. 

“Well,” Keith says, “whatever it is, now you’ve said it so you definitely have to show it to me.” 

Shiro’s smile is a flicker of a thing, but there’s something nervous shining in his eyes. Still, he untangles from Keith and slips out of bed, hissing quietly when his feet touch down on the cold floor. The fire’s still giving off heat and Shiro pauses briefly to feed it another log before he moves to a desk in the far corner.

Keith frowns, turning beneath the blankets to watch Shiro cross the room. 

Shiro hesitates when he reaches his desk, fiddling with the knob of a drawer. Keith’s about to speak, although he’s unsure what he’ll say, when Shiro takes a steadying breath and pops the drawer open. 

Shiro tugs out a stack of papers and closes the drawer again. He lingers for a breath too long before he turns back to Keith. He stands there, looking cold and uncertain beyond the circle of light the fire gives off. He looks otherworldly again, like he might fade away entirely. 

Shiro looks down, pausing at the fire again to grab one of the candles and to bring it towards the bedside, casting more light there. He returns to Keith’s side and up close, Keith can see how much Shiro trembles.

Shiro’s holding a stack of envelopes all tied up in a little bundle. Keith puzzles at the stack as Shiro holds them out to him, expression serious.

“What is it?” Keith asks. 

Shiro just holds the envelopes out, looking small again. Keith takes the bundle from him, angling them up and squinting to read in the dim light. He recognizes Shiro’s handwriting, the brutal _return to sender_ stamps from the post office, and Keith’s old address for the first town he moved to after leaving Altea Springs— misprinted. 

It’d been a crappy PO Box meant for his parents to check once a month while they were en route to follow the wolves. 

And Shiro had printed it wrong. 

Keith feels his breath still in his lungs. 

“I wrote you so many letters before they finally bounced back to me,” Shiro says. “They went to my grandma’s house— see the return address?— but I never realized.” Shiro shakes his head. “I wrote your address down wrong. And I— I didn’t have your number or any way to reach out to ask for the right one.” 

“Shiro,” Keith whispers, floored by the revelation. 

“I figured I’d fix it once you wrote to me,” Shiro says. “But— you didn’t.” 

“Shiro,” Keith whispers again. 

Keith had long ago accepted falling out of touch with his best friend— how Keith kept waiting for a letter to arrive that never came. Eventually, Keith stopped hoping they’d come. The longer the time passed, the more terrified Keith was of sending a letter first, of reaching out where he was no longer welcome. 

“You should open the first one,” Shiro says quietly. 

Keith looks up from the envelopes to meet Shiro’s eyes. He’s seized, quite suddenly, with an uncertainty he can’t name. He holds in his hands evidence of Shiro missing him— and it feels so strange to think it, after years of accepting that Shiro _never_ wrote to him. That Shiro moved on. That time and distance hit them just like anybody else. That he wasn’t important enough to hold onto. 

That Shiro didn’t care anymore. 

Keith carefully sets the letters down in his lap, taking care while untying the gingham ribbon keeping them all neatly stacked. He pulls up the first letter, fingers trembling, and braces himself as he slowly tears the envelope open. 

The paper is old, the ink faded— written with a crappy ballpoint pen on lined paper. Hardly the stuff of amazing letters, but heartfelt all the same. He recognizes the spiky hurry to Shiro’s lettering, meaning he wrote in a rush, passionate or fueled onward by too many thoughts. Keith’s throat feels tight. 

_I miss you already._

It’s only the first line of the letter and already Keith’s eyes sting. 

_I don’t want to be so far away from you,_ he reads in Shiro’s handwriting, the words shaky on the page, like Shiro was trembling as he tried to write it. _I miss you so much. Maybe this is a love letter. I’ve never written one before, but I’m writing to you and I love you and I miss you and I wish you were here. Do you think your parents will let me visit next summer? I can start saving up now and get my own bus ticket._

“Shiro,” Keith whispers. His hands tremble where they hold the page. The words stare back up at him: _I love you._

Shiro hadn’t actually said that the night Keith left. The words feel bold on the page even with the faded ink. The three words are right there, undeniable. 

“Just dramatic teenager-in-love shit,” Shiro says with a smile. He slowly, so slowly, steps closer towards the edge of the bed. But he’s still so far away. “I was so hung up on you.” 

“ _Shiro,_ ” Keith gasps, eyes widening as he looks at him. 

His world feels spun around on its axis. He can’t make sense of the words on the page— but they are Shiro’s words, it’s his handwriting, it’s a worn letter faded with age. It’s a letter. A love letter that Shiro wrote to him. A love letter he sent, postmarked a few days after Keith left, and returned to him again. 

“Don’t read the others,” Shiro says. “They get really mopey.” 

Keith doesn’t listen, his heart pounding as he moves to the letter at the bottom of the pile. He rips it open but takes his time unfolding the letter, terrified of what he’ll read. 

Shiro stands near him, but also damnably far away as Keith sits, fingers shake as he holds the letter. Shiro looks cold, standing there, frozen to the spot. Keith can do little to help him. He feels similarly frozen, similarly overwhelmed. 

The letter, of course, is devastating: _Did I scare you off?_

And: _Is that why you haven’t written me back yet, Keith?_

Similar questions litter the page, dramatic and teenage but heartfelt in its agony. Keith _knows_ Shiro, and he knows how he handles his emotions when he’s upset. It’s rare for him to be so noticeably sad. Maybe it’s because it’s Keith, because he knows him, that Shiro would ever let himself be so visible in his vulnerability. 

_I’m sorry if I came on too strong, but please write me back. I miss you._

Keith makes a sound. His eyes sting with the force of the words. 

_We can just be friends if you’ve changed your mind, but I don’t want us to not be friends._

“Shiro,” Keith says weakly, his heart breaking for the boy Shiro used to be— sixteen and lonely and missing his best friend. _Begging_ for Keith to respond to him. 

“For the longest time, I thought you just… stopped wanting to write,” Shiro says quietly. “I didn’t even know they’d gotten bounced back until I was helping my dad clean out my grandma’s house for her, and there they all were, tucked away in some drawer.” Shiro laughs, the softest, most heartbroken sound Keith’s ever heard. “And I realized I was the one ghosting on you, instead.” 

“Yeah,” Keith says, throat closing off. “I thought that you never wrote me. I thought—” 

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says, his voice cracking. 

_I don’t want you to be the boy who got away._ It’s the last line in the letter before the parting line ( _Love, Shiro_ ) and it stabs right into Keith’s chest. 

“Oh, Shiro,” Keith whispers, voice thick. 

“Keith,” Shiro says, laughing quietly, his eyes glassy in the dark. “I was crazy about you. Do you really think I’d forget that night? I— I can’t blame you. It looked like I didn’t write you, ever, but I did—”

Keith thought he was used to the emptiness inside him, the pit of loneliness deep in his gut. Reading these letters, seeing Shiro stand before him— it’s then that Keith realizes the extent to which he’s built up walls. Ever since the day he walked away from Shiro, there’s been a wall. 

Keith scrambles out of the bed, throws the blankets aside, and launches himself at Shiro. He grabs Shiro, yanking him down into his arms in a fierce hug. He can’t quite process what he’s just read, his entire body trembling with the force of the realization— that Shiro loved him back, in the way stupid teenagers can love each other, deep and infinite and with all the burning passion of first love— and that he’d written to Keith. 

“Shiro,” Keith whispers, and it’s the only word he knows how to say. 

Shiro sucks in a shaky breath and hugs him back, his arms tight and sure around Keith’s trembling body. 

They stand there, hugging each other, clinging to one another in the dark. For a time, the only sound in the room is the crackling of the fire, light and barely-heard in its embers. The snow piles on outside, muffling all else. It’s dark and cold in the room, despite the fire, despite the blankets. 

Hardly anything matters beyond holding Shiro. Keith grips him tight, his fingers digging into the back of Shiro’s shirt, like he might absorb into him, like they might be able to go back in time and change everything they lost. 

Like if he were to hold Shiro for long enough, it would erase all those years of loneliness. 

He lets the wall around his heart fall. 

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Keith asks, nearly crying at the thought of it. “The letters— when you saw me in the park—” 

“I— I don’t know,” Shiro says. “It’s— really intense, Keith. If you didn’t care at all anymore or if too much time had passed— I didn’t want to make it weird. You said you weren’t interested in romance… I thought about saying it a few times, but what if it would have just looked stupid, bringing it up? If you’d moved on.” 

It feels strange to hear Keith’s own fears offered back to him, a similar anxiety Shiro’s held inside his heart, too. Keith shakes his head, clinging tight. 

“You loved me,” Keith whispers faintly, hardly believing it still.

“Yes,” Shiro murmurs, his lips pressed to the crown of Keith’s head where he’s tucked Keith carefully beneath his chin. “So much, Keith.” 

“I loved you, too,” Keith says, voice thick. 

“I know,” Shiro says, the words watery. “I remember.” 

There’s little else to say to that, really. The silence descends around them again, as blanketing as the snow outside. Keith lets the words wash through him, threatening to drown him. It feels like too much at once, having the past thrown into this sharp focus, with a new context he hadn’t considered before.

Keith thought he was used to the loneliness. He thought he’d finally accepted that his love for Shiro outweighed Shiro’s love for him. But it wasn’t so. They missed so much about each other, a misunderstanding that robbed them both of so many years.

If Shiro had written his address down correctly, then— 

“… What now?” Keith whispers, almost afraid of the answer. The past tense ( _loved_ ) doesn’t escape him, although he can’t speak to whether it’s accurate, either. 

It’s Shiro, after all. His first, and only, great love. And he’d only ever been an almost. 

“Well…” Shiro whispers back, voice thready and husked out. He pauses, and there’s an infinite weight in that pause that Keith doesn’t know what to do with. His feet are ice cold and he’s trembling still, but Shiro hasn’t stopped holding him. 

“Well?” Keith prompts. 

“Seeing you again,” Shiro says slowly, his voice so small— and so hopeful. “I couldn’t help but think… this feels like a second chance, doesn’t it?” Shiro takes a deep breath, his chest swelling with it, pressing tighter to Keith. “Is that too crazy a thought?” 

Keith trembles. “No. No— I. I don’t think so. Do you?”

“No,” Shiro says. “Weirder things have happened, right?” His smile is downright heartbreaking when he pulls back enough to look down at Keith, the two of them caught just staring at one another once more. “I loved you from the first moment you marched up to me on the playground and told me you liked my white streak because it reminded you of a penguin, and penguins are cool so I must be cool.” 

Keith sputters, which only makes Shiro smile more. The memory takes him by surprise. “I can’t believe you remember that.” 

“It was and is the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me,” Shiro says.

“Please.” 

He expects Shiro to keep teasing him, to start laughing. But the mood in the air is still too thick, the two of them still staring down the years of lost chances. Keith stares up at Shiro, feeling his own heart race in his chest, and sees the way Shiro studies him in turn.

Shiro’s hands shift, moving to touch his hips. He steps a little closer. 

“Shiro,” Keith whispers, feeling electric just from the shift of that touch. There’s no mistaking the heavy press of Shiro’s hands to his hips. He can’t dismiss it the way he could Shiro’s hand on his back or the way he’d looked at him all of tonight. 

“Yeah, Keith,” Shiro says again. Quietly, so quietly, weighted down with meaning, he murmurs, “Please?” 

Keith might be an idiot with people, but there’s no mistaking the quiet thrum of that single word. He inhales slowly. 

He’s not going to let Shiro beg ever again. 

Keith can do little else but tip forward to kiss him, his mouth slotting easily to Shiro’s. Shiro’s hand comes up to cradle his jaw, angling him carefully as he kisses him long, slow, and deep. It’s breathtaking and Keith might do something as cheesy as go weak in the knees over it. 

Shiro gasps, the softest punched out sound against Keith’s lips. Keith presses forward, off-center and wrong footed just like when he was a teenager, but somehow more sure of himself and his welcome. Shiro touches him and it sets Keith on fire. He tilts his head and melts into Shiro. 

And Shiro is all around him, holding him as they kiss. He tugs Keith in close, laying worship to his mouth in a desperate, quiet gratitude. Keith forgets how to breathe, all air still in his lungs in favor of touching Shiro, kissing Shiro, holding Shiro. 

Shiro sighs against Keith’s lips, trembling apart beneath Keith’s touch. It feels like infinity and yet not nearly long enough, like he’s waited his entire life for this moment again. Keith feels like he’s going to burst to life, feeling how sure and strong Shiro is beneath his hands. Keith’s fingers curl tight in the soft white fabric of Shiro’s shirt and refuses to let go. 

Shiro makes a sound against his mouth, longing and desire breathless against Keith’s lips. He feels as overwhelmed as Keith does, it seems, clinging to Keith and trying to focus on just kissing Keith. The kiss is slow, hesitant, but it’s the gentle press of their lips together that makes Keith feel like he’s crying, like he’s finally found the place he belongs. 

He lifts his hands, cupping Shiro’s cheeks, too, and feeling anchored. Shiro makes another soft sound, disbelieving and hopeful, and his hand curls up tight into Keith’s hair, cradling the back of his head and dragging him closer still. 

When he pulls back from the kiss again, he’s absolutely breathless with it. He likely looks just as punched-out as he feels. 

“It’s cold,” Keith whispers against Shiro’s kiss-damp mouth.

“Yeah…” 

“Come back to bed,” Keith says, and it sounds far too bold when he says it in that tone of voice. He feels Shiro shudder against him and can’t regret the huskiness in his own voice. 

Keith takes one step back, his hands finding Shiro’s and tugging him forward. He turns quickly, reverent in his care as he collects the envelopes and sets them on the bedside table, intending to read them later— and unwilling to crush them beneath their bodies. 

He turns back to Shiro, overwhelmed suddenly with all that’s transpired in the last minutes. Shiro looks equally as floored, quiet and cold in the dark. They stand there for a moment, just looking at each other. 

Keith’s aware of how Shiro looks like this— the way he looks when he’s just been kissed. It’s so different from that night on the picnic bench, his face splotchy with tears, his face still round with youth. 

He’s different now, but still the same Shiro that Keith remembers— the same Shiro that Keith loves. 

“Come here,” Keith says, unsure why he suddenly feels so shy. “It’s okay. It’s me. It’s just me.”

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, and he steps to Keith again. His arms lift, folding around Keith and squeezing him tight. It feels like belonging, like this was always the moment Keith was hoping for— where all his journeys might lead him. 

It’s easy to hug Shiro. Keith clings, burying his face up against his neck and just breathing, his senses flooded with lavender. His eyes sting with the urge to cry, but he’s unsure if it’s heartbreak or relief. 

The night chill wins out over all else, in the end. They break away long enough to climb back into Shiro’s bed. But Keith’s quick to reach for Shiro, tugging them to the center of the bed and pressing together, nearly suffocating beneath the weight of all the lost years between them. 

Keith isn’t sure what to say or how to process it all. 

And then Shiro laughs. 

It’s a startled, punched-out sound, like the very laugh has taken even Shiro by surprise. But it shatters the heavy quiet in the room. Shiro jerks back from the hug to smile helplessly at Keith, his eyes shining.

“You’re _here_ ,” Shiro says. “I’ve been imagining what I’d say to you if I ever met you again. I wanted to apologize, I wanted—”

Keith cups his cheeks and yanks him down, kissing the apology from his lips.

Shiro chuckles again between the kisses, a delirious, overwhelmingly happy sound. It’s infectious. Keith wants to cry and laugh at once and settles somewhere between, a sound hiccupping out of him that Shiro dutifully swallows. 

Keith licks into Shiro’s mouth and he hears Shiro groan, his fingers curling tight in Keith’s hair. It’s the most delicious sound Keith can ever remember hearing and it shudders through him. He wants to ply every sound from Shiro’s lips if he can help it. He wants to steal the breath from his lungs and swallow every sound. He wants to spell out his devotion to Shiro like this, just like this. 

“Keith,” Shiro whispers once they part again, smiling as he hovers, pressing their foreheads together. “Keith.”

“Yeah,” Keith whispers, fingers tangling up in Shiro’s hair. Somewhere in the time-space continuum, he likes to imagine his fourteen-year-old self is happy with how the night has gone. Keith certainly can’t believe it. 

It all feels too surreal. It’s overwhelming. He wants to imagine a world in which their younger selves are happy for them— happy they’ve finally found their way to each other. 

“Shiro,” Keith whispers just as Shiro kisses him again, the lightest peck. 

“I’d go bird-chasing with you forever,” Shiro says with such seriousness. Keith can’t tell if he’s joking or being stupidly earnest. Either way, it’s the kind of shit that Keith should find unbearable and stupid— only for it to be helplessly endearing coming from Shiro. 

“I don’t chase birds,” Keith says flatly and it makes Shiro chuckle, low and throaty. Keith’s fingers twist up tight in Shiro’s shirt. 

“I want to respectfully watch birds with you forever, then,” Shiro says, his smile light and teasing, but the words no less heavy.

Keith looks down, biting his lip. “We’re not kids anymore, Shiro.”

“No,” Shiro agrees softly. “We’re not.” He studies Keith with the same heavy intensity he always does— like everything Keith has to say matters, like he only ever wants to listen to Keith’s words for the rest of their days. “We can take things slow. I mean— we were kids. I’m not expecting you to still be in love with me after all this time.” 

Keith isn’t sure how to respond to that. He isn’t sure if he can even really examine the truth of the words, either. Instead, he presses his face into Shiro’s shoulder and just breathes him in. 

Shiro makes a soft sound, turning his head to nuzzle into Keith’s hair. His lips press against his ear in a gentle kiss. “I’m serious, though. I want this, Keith. If you do.”

“Yeah,” Keith murmurs back, his heart leaping. “Yeah, Shiro.” 

He pulls back to meet Shiro’s eyes. 

“Is it so simple?” Keith asks.

Shiro hums, his eyes shining. “Yeah, Keith. It can be as simple as that. If we both want it— what’s stopping us?” 

It takes a moment, but when the smile blooms across Shiro’s face, it’s undoubtedly beautiful. Keith can’t help but mirror it, relief and happiness soaring through him. The permission, somehow, feels like the last thing holding him back. He lifts his hands, touching Shiro’s cheeks, his thumbs tracing along the shape of his scar. 

“You were my first kiss, you know,” Shiro says and his smile is moony. 

“You were mine, too,” Keith says, grinning back. He feels delirious and ridiculous, like he’s a teenager again realizing his crush likes him back. “You’re the only guy I’ve ever kissed, actually.”

“Mmmm,” Shiro says and leans in to kiss him again. Keith sighs, sinking into the feeling and cupping the back of Shiro’s head, his fingers sinking into his hair. It feels good to kiss him like this. 

Shiro mumbles something against Keith’s lips.

Keith tilts back with a grunt. “What?”

“I said,” Shiro says, pressing a kiss to the corner of Keith’s mouth and trailing up his jaw, “I can be your only first kiss, then. Your last first kiss.” 

“You complete sap,” Keith grumbles and rolls his eyes, barking a shocked laugh when Shiro bites at his jaw. “Who knew you were such a romantic?” 

“More romantic than all the birds on Earth, even,” Shiro says and laughs, the deepest chuckle that punches straight into Keith’s heart. 

Dryly, he says, “Such an accomplishment.” 

“That’s right. No bower birds here.” 

“No Superb Fairy Wrens,” Keith says. “Sometimes they’re so promiscuous that not a single egg in the female’s nest is sired by her partner.”

“Keith,” Shiro says, laughing softly. 

“I’m just saying,” Keith says. “You’re not—”

Shiro leans forward, kissing Keith and swallowing the words before they can hiccup out of him. It leaves Keith with a hitch in his throat, his eyelids fluttering shut as he sinks against Shiro. He whimpers, a pathetic, stupid sound, and grasps at Shiro.

The last of the walls fall and Keith melts, sighing into the kiss. 

When they draw away again, Shiro smiles at him. “You told me not to project onto birds, Keith. You shouldn’t, either. People aren’t birds.”

“I know that,” Keith says. 

“We found each other again,” Shiro says. “It’s— a good sign, right?” 

Before Keith can respond, Shiro kisses him again. Keith whimpers, melting at the attention. He’s always found Shiro’s attention to him intense, but having such undivided devotion all at once threatens to undo him entirely. 

“Uh huh,” Keith agrees, still a bit stunned from the kiss even once Shiro draws away. He stares at Shiro’s lips, kiss-damp and sweet. “Uh— what?” 

It makes Shiro laugh, leaning in closer to press a kiss to the curve of Keith’s jaw, nuzzling in closer. “Although, the bird facts are pretty sexy.”

Keith squawks. “They are _not_! Shut up.”

“They are!” Shiro says, insistent. He draws away to grin at Keith, his eyes glowing. “You’re so passionate. I love it.” 

Keith’s heart lodges up into his throat. “Y- yeah?”

“Yeah,” Shiro murmurs.

Keith yanks him down to kiss him again. Shiro comes to him with a pleased groan. It’s better than answering him or facing the force of such praise. 

“Passionate Keith,” Shiro murmurs into the kiss, halfway to a tease.

“Shut up.” 

“Bird-nerd Keith,” Shiro says again, mouth ghosting his.

Keith laughs, shoving away from the kiss to try to glare. It lacks much force in the dark. 

Shiro just grins back at him, seemingly as delirious with happiness as Keith. He pushes Keith back onto the bed, crawling up after him. 

“Beautiful Keith,” he murmurs as he leans in to kiss him, slow and sweet. “Perfect Keith.”

The praise leaves Keith breathless. He hooks his arms around Shiro and tugs him, kissing him just on the edge of desperate. “Shiro…” 

“Yeah,” Shiro says, his hand dropping to touch Keith’s belly, just resting there. But the touch alone is enough to set Keith on fire. “I’ve got you.” 

“Yeah,” Keith says, breathless and burning up. He swallows down thickly, staring up at Shiro in the dark. They’re at a crossroads and Keith knows what it is he wants— what he has wanted for years, if he’s honest. What he’s been waiting for. 

This. Only this. 

He licks his lips. “You— you said you’d keep me warm, right?” He pushes past the nervousness, dragging his hand pointedly down the slope of Shiro’s back. He tugs his shirt up, exposing the warm line of his back. “Warm me up, then.”

It's bold. And certainly the opposite of going slow. He watches Shiro register the words, then search Keith’s face for any doubt. He won’t find it. Keith watches the satisfaction burn in Shiro’s eyes, undivided attention pinned only on Keith. 

“With pleasure,” Shiro says and ducks down to meet him. 

-

Keith wakes in the morning to the back of Shiro’s head, his face shoved into his pillow. Keith lies there, just watching Shiro as he sleeps, tracing his eyes over the marks he left on the back of his neck and shoulders. There’s something luxurious about it, and certainly never in a younger Keith’s wildest dreams did he imagine himself in this situation— Keith feels satisfied for it. He shifts, pressing up against Shiro’s back and spooning against him, content to feel the radiating warmth and luxuriate in the cool morning air. 

“Your feet are cold,” Shiro mumbles sleepily when Keith slides his toes against the backs of Shiro’s calves. 

“You’re just a furnace,” Keith answers. “It’s not my fault.” 

Shiro inhales deeply, his chest swelling with breath as he swims his way out of sleep. He shifts, pressing back against Keith and groping until he finds his hand, pulling his arm to drape around his body, to pull Keith flush against his back. Keith sighs, nuzzling at the back of his neck. It feels nice to be pressed so close to him. 

“Are you hungry?” Shiro asks, chest rumbling with his words. 

“In a bit,” Keith says, mouth pressing to Shiro’s sleep-soft skin. “Want to hold you first.”

“And you call _me_ the romantic,” Shiro says, although there’s no hiding the pleasure in his voice. 

“You’re not the only one more romantic than a bird,” Keith mumbles against the back of his neck, slipping his lips over his skin. It feels decadent to have such a simple, intimate touch. To hold Shiro like this. “Much as a shitty baseline that is.” 

It makes Shiro chuckle, his entire body thrumming with it. “Okay,” Shiro says, twisting around to look at him over his shoulder, his grey eyes warm and sleep-gentle. “But if I were a bird, which one would I be?” 

“Mmm,” Keith hums thoughtfully, pretending to think. He touches on a piece of Shiro’s silver hair, curling it around his finger and tugging. “A dove.”

Shiro looks curious, eyes sparkling. “Really?”

“Or a Pigeon,” Keith says.

“ _Excuse you,_ Keith,” Shiro says, gasping in mock-betrayal. It makes Keith snortit an amused laugh. 

“An albatross,” Keith murmurs, kissing his cheek. “A crane.”

“You’re just naming white birds now.” 

“Maybe,” Keith says with a wicked grin. He shrieks a surprised laugh when Shiro flips him over, pinning him down onto the bed. They’ve long since lost their clothes to last night and as the many quilts fold down away from Keith’s body, exposing his bare skin to the cold air, he gasps out. “Fuck, too cold, too cold!” 

But Shiro presses down against him, kissing him soundly, and it does wonders to warm Keith up all over again. There isn’t a childhood memory Keith can call upon that’s anything like these past twenty-four hours. They’re making their own memories, new and golden with love. Keith loves the thrill of it. 

The day’s started, though, although a quick click of the side-table lamp shows no power still. Keith’s the one to brave the cold air to build up the fire again, diving back beneath the covers as soon as it’s properly lit, snuggling back into the welcoming circle of Shiro’s arms. The prosthesis is surprisingly warm to the touch, as is the rest of Shiro, and the press of his lips against Keith’s chest as he works his way down beneath the covers does wonders to distract Keith from any biting cold. 

Once they’re warm enough to dress again, Keith taking another set of clothes from Shiro, they brave the cold to make tea and grab more pumpkin bread, and use some of the almond milk in the fridge to fill bowls of cereal, all before darting back upstairs to enjoy breakfast beneath the heavy blankets. The room smells like black tea, steeping in a big teapot complete with a comically grandma-ish tea cozy that Shiro apparently made himself rather than get from a grandparent. 

“Do you need to go check on the swans?” Shiro asks once breakfast is complete.

Keith peers out the window. The storm has passed, although there’s still snow falling— light and fluffy, not nearly as uninviting as yesterday. The ground is absolutely covered in it and he despairs to think of unburying his truck back at the reserve’s entrance to brave the backstreets to the trailer. 

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need,” Shiro says, reading his expression.

Keith hums. “I should check on them. We have boots. I’ll catch you if there’s any ice.”

Shiro grins, kissing his cheek. “My hero.” 

Before they set out, Keith checks the dampness level of his clothes hanging on the shower rod. Still too damp, but Shiro’s happy to lend more weather-appropriate attire, even if Keith swims in the pants he lends him. 

He also thrusts a red coat at him, with faux fur lining the hood. “Please,” he says when Keith gives him a look. “I’ve told you so many times how crappy your coat looks. I consider it my responsibility to keep you warm all winter.” 

Keith eyes the sad looking coat hanging on the hook and snatches the red one from Shiro. “Fine.” 

As soon as he shrugs into it, he sighs out— it does feel warm, insulated in a way his old coat lacks. It also, unlike the other things Shiro’s let him wear, fits him perfectly. He puzzles over that, and the way Shiro avoids eye contact as he collects other warm winter clothes. 

“Shiro,” Keith says, a warning in his voice. 

Shiro just smiles at him, practically glowing. Keith sighs and lets Shiro fuss over him, tying a thick scarf around his neck and tucking the loose ends beneath the sweater, and handing Keith a beanie and pair of non-fingerless gloves. 

“Don’t worry about it, Keith,” Shiro says as he adjusts Keith’s hat for him. It feels strange to be so cared for, but sweet in its own way. Keith feels his face heat up, warmth and joy twisting up in his chest. 

Even this feels new. 

Shiro’s similarly dressed up as they head out into the day— his familiar coat, scarf, and hat combo. The porch is slippery with ice and they tread carefully, Shiro snatching Keith’s hand as soon as they start walking.

It’s pleasant and ridiculous and juvenile and perfect. Keith laces his fingers with Shiro’s. He’s glad for the gloves to keep them warm but wishes he could feel Shiro’s palm against his. 

In time, though, he realizes. They have time. 

They move slowly across the fields, taking care as they head to the lake. They’re mindful of each step, their tracks kicking through the snow, a horrible mix of powder and winter rain made frozen on the ground. The trip down the hill into the trees is particularly threatening, with the both of them windmilling their arms and clinging to each other to keep from rolling down the full length of the hill and hurting themselves. 

When they do reach the lake, it’s a picturesque scene. The woodchip paths are completely covered and there’s not a footprint in sight. There are the occasional animal tracks, little pawprints and talon marks from birds skittering across the ground, but otherwise undisturbed. Every evergreen is covered in layers of snow and the edges of the lake are frozen over. 

Black and Red swim idly, unperturbed by the weather and wrapped up in each other as usual. Red honks a warning honk, as per usual, when Shiro and Keith skirt too close to the shore’s edge and thus far too close to Black. Keith can’t help but huff— 605 always was far too protective of her mate. 

“I’m glad they’re okay,” Shiro says, smiling, and squeezes Keith’s hand. 

“Told you they would be,” Keith says. “They’re a resilient duo.”

“And they’ve got each other,” Shiro says with far more fondness Keith feels the swans deserves, considering their usual level of assholery. 

Keith thinks of his coworkers last summer, cooing over soulmates. It’d annoyed Keith then, but now he just feels warm all over to see Shiro’s sappy smile as he looks at the two swans. 

And then Shiro chuckles.

“What?” Keith tilts his head. 

“We match,” Shiro says. He points with his free hand between the two of them. “You’re wearing red and I’m wearing black.” Then he gestures towards the swans. “Red and Black.” 

Keith wants to snort or roll his eyes or otherwise dismiss the silliness of it, but he’s quickly discovering that Shiro really is, at his heart, a romantic. His boyfriend is a romantic. His boyfriend. Maybe it’s too soon to call him that, or maybe it’s just right. Maybe Keith could speak it aloud and Shiro would call him the sap instead.

Keith watches the swans, circling around each other in the typical way they do. Keith knows better than to project human emotions onto them, but it does strike him as a playful gesture when they do that— spiraling around each other like they’re always ready to follow and lead the other. 

They’re good birds. At the very least, they’re the reason he’s returned to Altea Springs. He’ll always be grateful for that and what it brought back into his life. Keith glances away from the swans to look at Shiro instead. 

Shiro’s eyes are so warm when they look at Keith. Keith wonders how he ever managed to feel cold. 

“You’re cute,” Keith finally answers and watches Shiro beam.

Keith tips his chin up to accept the kiss he knows, instinctively, is coming. He loves how even in this, he can anticipate Shiro— that even in this, a new territory they haven’t explored yet, he knows Shiro. Keith sighs sweetly at the press of Shiro’s mouth to his. He likes the thought of how easily they slip into this— how easily they’ve fit into one another’s lives again. Like they were meant to return to one another. 

“I’m glad you’re here, Keith,” Shiro murmurs when they part again, smiling as they turn back to watch the swans, swimming away together. He squeezes Keith’s hand. “I’m glad you came back.”

Keith tucks up into Shiro’s side, warmer than he’s felt in days, curled up in the coat Shiro bought for him and relaxing in Shiro’s arms. He thinks of all the jokes he could make about Shiro’s phrasing— about migration, birds flocking together, birds leaving the nest, or whatever else. He knows Shiro would laugh, his entire face lighting up. 

But instead, Keith settles for simply sighing Shiro’s name, knowing Shiro will hear the affection there. He trusts Shiro to read him, to know him. Shiro always has. 

“I’m glad, too,” Keith murmurs, his heart soaring away from him. He’s sure he must look lovestruck. “Thanks for being here to welcome me home, Shiro.” 

Shiro kisses the top of his head and all is right in the world. Keith’s exactly where he belongs— the morning is cold around them, but the sun shines overhead. They watch the swans together.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject) (including the [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/commentbuilder)), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates responses, including:
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> If you haven't already, please be sure to send all the love to Ani for her beautiful art for this fic! You can find those pieces [here](https://twitter.com/ani_mani95/status/1358858657765720071) and [here](https://twitter.com/ani_mani95/status/1358858665348972545).


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